William 


Henry 


Carfon 


OE  CALIF.,  ETBEAlffTri& 


TITO 


By  WILLIAM   HENRY  CARSON 


Author  of 
HESTER  BLAIR"  and  "THE  FOOL 


Illustrations  by 
C  HARLES   H.  STEPHENS 


C.  M.  Clark 
Publishing 

Company 


Boston, Mass 

U.S.A. 

1903. 


CLAR  K 
PUBLISHING 
C  0  M  P  A  N  T 

BOSTON,     MASS. 
U    .  S    .  A    . 


ENTERED  AT 
STATIONERS  HALL 
LONDON  FOREIGN 
COPYRIGHTS  SECURED 


RIGHTS  OF 
TR  ANSLATI O  N 
PUBLIC  READ- 
I  N  G  AND 
DRAMATIZATION 
RESERVED 


ILL  USTRA  TIONS 


"I  swear   not  by  that!"      .  Page  65 


They  fought  for  a  commmon  cause, 

furiously,   blindly"          .  .    Page  238 


"  Boy,  hast  thou  kept  thy  vow?          Page   317 


NOTICE 


If  you  will  return  this  page  with  your 
name  and  address  in  full  we  will  send 
you,  free  of  expense,  a  beautiful  poster 
of  "  Tito"  printed  in  four  colors,  size 
14  x  28. 

Name 

Address 

City  and  State 


I 
I 

I 

I 
I 

to 

C.  M.   CLrfRK  PUBLISH/JVC  CO.  \ 

211   Trement  Street  \ 

Boston,  Mass. 

i 
i 
i 
i 
i 
i 
i 
i 


TITO, 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  quiet  of  early  evening  had  settled  over 
the  city  of  Florence.  In  the  valley  the  first 
shadows  were  enveloping  the  river  Arno, 
but  on  the  distant  tower  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  the 
sunlight  still  lingered — a  golden  flood  that,  slowly 
mounting  to  the  top,  touched  the  apex  caressingly, 
as  though  loath  to  remove  its  crown  from  so  noble 
a  work.  The  slanting  beams  turned  the  sky  into 
mountains  of  bronze,  to  melt  quickly  away  as  the 
sun  dipped  behind  the  distant  hills.  Flashed 
heavenward,  the  last  rays  of  light  sank  to  the  line 
of  the  horizon — in  their  wake  a  canopy  of  flame 
fringed  with  purple,  that,  as  if  weary  of  its  own 
splendor,  followed,  with  languid  grace,  the  reced 
ing  light.  It  was  already  night  in  the  valley. 

Mother  Malenotti  stood  before  the  open  door  of 
the  Vanburg  Villa,  situated  some  miles  from  the 
city.  She  had  an  air  of  alertness,  expectancy,  and, 
after  a  moment's  hesitation,  noiselessly  closed  the 
door  and  returned  to  the  dining  room. 

"No  word  from  him  yet  and  it  is  now  three  days 
I 


TITO 

since  I  sent  the  telegram.  Bah!  what  does  he 
care!  He  will  be  glad  to  be  rid  of  her;  and  she — 
my  Bettina !  she  will  die." 

A  flood  of  emotions  swept  over  her  features- 
love  for  Bettina,  the  young  wife  who,  after  giving 
birth  to  a  son,  lay  unconscious,  dying,  in  the  ad 
joining  room ;  hate  for  the  absent  husband  and 
father,  for  having  stolen  the  love  that  the  old 
woman  claimed. 

"Madonna  Mia,  why  did  he  ever  enter  our 
lives?" 

Her  voice  shook  with  emotion,  but  it  was  the 
passion  of  hate,  not  of  sorrow,  that  moved  her. 
Cautiously  she  looked  into  the  adjoining  room  at 
the  sleeper,  who  lay  quite  still,  her  breathing  the 
only  sign  of  life;  then  turned  to  face  Pietro,  her 
foster  brother,  who  had  just  entered. 

"Well?"  she  queried. 

Her  glance  was  eager,  questioning;  her  attitude 
that  of  suppressed  excitement. 

Pietro  responded  with  a  nod  of  his  head. 

A  gleam  of  vicious  joy  flashed  the  intelligence 
that  she  understood;  then  her  features  resumed 
their  habitual  expression — unrelenting,  forbid 
ding. 

"You  have  heard  nothing  from  him  yet?"  Pietro 
asked. 

"No.  Perhaps  he  has  gone  to  America.  It  was 
only  a  question  of  time  till  he  deserted  her.  Now 
she  is  dying — " 

A  savage  love,  tempered  by  a  sorrow  that  was 
pathetic,  shone  in  the  eyes  she  turned  to  the  taci- 

2 


TITO 

turn  Pietro,  as  if  to  wring  from  him  some  expres 
sion  of  sympathy,  of  hope;  but  after  meeting  her 
look  in  sullen  silence,  his  eyes  fell. 

A  low  forehead,  bleary  eyes,  restless  with  sus 
picion,  bloodless  lips  compressed  tightly  over 
irregular,  yellow  teeth,  dark  swarthy  skin,  and  a 
croppy,  thin  beard  that  accentuated  his  expression 
of  dogged  determination  and  calculating  cruelty — 
such  was  Pietro  as  he  sat  glaring  at  the  floor.  But 
it  was  a  scar,  blood  red,  extending  from  the  lobe 
of  the  left  ear  to  the  mouth,  like  a  whip-lash,  stand 
ing  out  on  the  cheek  with  repulsive  prominence, 
that  added  a  hideousness  to  a  face  that  was  cruel, 
revolting.  One  glance  was  sufficient,  and  you 
turned  away,  shuddering.  His  life  had  been  one 
of  vindictive  passion,  hate  guided  by  superstition: 
— the  goal  of  his  desires,  vengeance;  the  only  re 
deeming  instinct  in  his  nature,  his  love  for  his 
niece,  Bettina.  Since  her  marriage  to  Horace 
Vanburg  he  had  not  seen  her.  Two  days  before,  he 
had  come  quickly  in  answer  to  the  command  of  his 
foster  sister,  Mother  Malenotti, — a  command  that 
filled  him  with  terror  when  he  learned  the  cause — 
a  command  that  aroused  every  evil  instinct  in  his 
nature. 

"And  the  child?"  The  old  woman's  voice  was 
tremulous. 

"Hush !"  he  exclaimed. 

He  did  not  look  up  for,  conscious  of  his  own 
ugliness,  it  was  only  in  moments  of  passion  that 
he  met  the  eyes  of  those  who  addressed  him. 

"He  has  had  his  joy,"  he  muttered,  "his  sorrow 
3 


TITO 

is  yet  to  come.  If  she  dies,  then  will  he  make  his 
reckoning  with  the  Cristo — and  me." 

Pietro's  lips  parted  in  a  vicious  smile,  showing 
his  yellow  teeth,  but  it  was  like  the  snarl  of  a  wild 
beast. 

"Sorrow?  Diavolo!  You  cannot  reach  his 
heart.  These  Americans  are  without  hearts. 
What  know  they  of  love?  Has  the  rich  father 
ever  sent  for  our  Bettina?  No.  Has  he  ever 
called  her  daughter?  No.  He  was  too  proud  to 
acknowledge  her;  and,  after  the  marriage, when  we 
went  to  America,  did  not  our  Bettina  wait  day 
after  day  for  word  from  the  father  bidding  her 
come  to  him?  And  each  day  the  look  of  sorrow 
in  her  eyes  deepened — I  could  read  it  there.  But 
the  husband  had  but  excuses  to  give  her,  bidding 
her  wait,  while  her  heart  was  bursting  with  shame. 
Do  you  hear,  Pietro?  She  was  not  good  enough 
for  these  rich  Americani!  Not  good  enough — our 
Bettina!"  Rage  seemed  to  choke  her  utterance, 
and  she  paused,  breathless.  The  scar  on  Pietro's 
face  turned  to  a  dull  purple  hue. 

"Angiolina,"'  his  tone  was  one  of  fierce  intensity, 
"do  you  see  this  scar?"  He  raised  a  finger  trem 
bling  with  passion  to  his  face.  The  old  woman 
remained  silent. 

"He  who  gave  me  that  is  dead,"  he  continued. 
"Would  you  know  how  death  came  to  him?"  His 
smile  added  venom  to  his  words. 

The  old  woman  raised  her  hand  in  a  deprecating 
gesture. 

"All  we  had  this  Americano  stole  from  us,  and 
4 


TITO 

it  has  left  a  scar  deeper  than  that, — do  you  hear? 
deeper." 

"Be  guiet,"  she  commanded,  "what  is  the  good 
of  this  ?  It  will  not  save  her." 

Pietro  relapsed  into  his  customary  sullen 
silence;  the  old  woman  busied  herself  about  her 
duties. 

Two  years  before  our  story  opens,  began  the 
love  romance  of  Horace  Vanburg  and  Bettina 
Turelli.  He,  a  descendant  of  a  family  who  could 
trace  their  ancestors  to  the  earliest  Dutch  settlers 
of  Manhattan  Island,  young,  rich  in  his  own  right, 
an  amateur  artist  of  uncommon  ability,  was  loiter 
ing  through  Europe  and  Northern  Africa.  Now  in 
Algiers,  a  man  of  wealth  and  leisure,  disappearing 
in  a  night  to  become  the  guest  of  French  officers 
on  the  frontier,  bivouacking  in  the  desert,  tearing 
across  country,  the  wildest  of  wild  riders,  skirting 
the  coast  in  an  open  boat,  the  companion  of  native 
fishermen,  daring  fate  through  the  mountain 
passes  of  Sicily,  avoiding  much  travelled  routes 
and  the  English  hotels  of  Cairo  to  consort  with 
natives,  and  run  the  risk  of  having  his  throat  cut. 
Of  a  day  dallying  along  the  shores  of  the  Nile,  to 
be  next  heard  from  at  Rome — disappearing-  as 
suddenly  to  sketch  in  the  most  southerly  parts  of 
Italy — living  with  the  peasants,  passing  for  an 
Italian,  French,  German  or  American  as  occasion 
demanded  and  his  progress  or  affairs  were  ad 
vanced — the  languages  of  continental  Europe 
were  to  him  as  his  native  tongue.  He  had  earned 
his  holiday  by  a  brilliant  record  at  college — his 

5 


TITO 

daring  and  dash  while  at  school,  being  repeated  in 
his  wild  journeyings:  seeking  the  least  known 
and  obscure  byways  of  Southern  Europe  and  the 
adjacent  continent,  fearless,  restless,  peril  only 
adding  zest  to  his  travels. 

He  had  first  met  Bettina  at  one  of  the  Floren 
tine  galleries.  From  the  first  meeting  her  beauty 
had  attracted  him,  for  it  was  of  an  uncommon  type, 
rarely  found  in  one  of  her  class.  She  lived  with 
her  aunt,  Mother  Malenotti,  whose  love  for  the 
beautiful,  talented  girl  was  such  as  one  of  her  race 
and  position  in  life  knows — wild,  jealous,  idola 
trous.  The  old  woman  and  Pietro  worshiped  at  a 
shrine — Bettina  was  their  goddess. 

The  aunt  and  Pietro  worked  in  the  fields,  slav 
ing,  pinching,  denying  themselves  almost  the  nec 
essaries  of  life,  that  the  young  Bettina  might  be 
taught,  that  she  might  have  the  best  of  food,  of 
clothing — for  her  future  was  all  that  was  left  to 
them;  and  they  watched  over  her  as  a  tigress 
guards  her  young.  When  on  a  holiday  they  rested 
from  their  labors,  they  would  sit  beside  the  young 
artist,  watch  her  in  silent  adoration,  and  marvel  at 
her  beauty,  and  her  wonderful  skill,  as  the  portrait 
of  the  Madonna  grew  on  the  canvas.  Then  with  a 
sigh  of  satisfaction  they  would  return  to  the  fields, 
blessing  the  saints  that  had  been  kind  to  them. 

Vanburg  and  Bettina  had  spent  one  long  sum 
mer  together,  copying  in  the  galleries,  sketching 
in  the  valley  of  the  Arno,  happy  with  their  art  and 
their  love  until,  in  the  early  autumn,  he  had  asked 
Mother  Malenotti's  consent  to  their  marriage. 

6 


TITO 

He  was  met  by  a  tirade  of  invectives,  upbraid- 
ings,  even  curses,  for  having  come  into  their  lives. 
Why  should  he,  a  rich  aristocrat,  wish  to  marry  a 
peasant's  daughter?  No,  she  would  never  con 
sent.  He  would  make  of  Bettina  a  plaything,  a  pas 
time,  and  when  he  was  tired  of  her,  fling  her  from 
him,  back  into  her  old  life — disgraced,  dishonored. 
Vanburg  resorted  to  every  art  to  win  her  favor. 
Time,  however,  only  increased  the  old  woman's 
wrath;  but  notwithstanding  her  opposition,  in  the 
late  autumn  they  were  quietly  married. 

A  cablegram,  followed  by  a  letter,  informed  his 
father  of  his  marriage,  but  to  these  came  no  reply, 
and  Vanburg  determined  to  visit  America  in  the 
hope  that  his  father  would  become  reconciled. 
Mother  Malenotti  accompanied  them.  Though 
she  made  no  effort  to  disguise  her  enmity  toward 
Vanburg,  her  devotion  to  the  young  wife  was 
complete,  and  he  met  her  vindictive  thrusts  with 
calm  courtesy  that  only  enraged  her  the  more. 

"If  you  would  hate  me  less,"  he  said  to  her,  "it 
would  add  to  Bettina's  happiness." 

An  ominous  flash  of  the  eyes  was  her  answer. 

"Why  do  you  hate  me?"  he  insisted.  "Bettina 
is  happy." 

"She  was  happy  before  you  came." 

"True,"  he  rejoined,  "but  she  is  not  less  happy 
now." 

"Not  now,  but— 

Her  glance  of  suspicion  flashed  her  meaning. 

"Try  to  hate  me  less.  It  would  add  to  your 
own  comfort,  besides  it  makes  Bettina  miserable." 

7 


TITO 

"What  of  the  rich  father?"  she  demanded, 
fiercely.  "He  has  not  sent  for  my  Bettina.  Why? 
Yes,  to  America  I  will  go  with  thee  that  I  may  be 
near  my  Bettina — for  she  will  return  here  as  she 
goes — without  the  blessing  that  is  her  right.  Dost 
thou  think  I  do  not  know?  Yes,  yes,  I  will  go, 
that  I  may  curse  thee  for  having  brought  this 
shame  to  her.  And  thy  wife!  When  she  knows 
what  I  know  will  she  not  cry  her  heart  out — but 
she  will  speak  no  word,  for  that  is  her  way.  Yes, 
I  will  go,  I  will  go — to  be  near  her." 

Vanburg  winced.  The  old  woman  voiced  his 
own  fears. 

Their  arrival  in  America  was,  so  far  as  his  father 
was  concerned,  a  realization  of  all  that  Mother 
Malenotti  had  prophesied — the  father  refused  to 
acknowledge  his  son's  marriage.  Only  once  did 
Vanburg-  visit  his  home.  He  received  a  formal 
greeting,  but  no  mention  was  made  of  his  wife; 
and  he  read  in  the  set  expression,  the  unresponsive 
features,  the  calm,  unflinching  gaze,  that  should 
he  ever  return  he  must  come  alone. 

Bettina  met  him  with  a  startled,  expectant  look ; 
but  she  read  in  his  face  what  she  most  feared. 

"Love,  let  us  return  to  our  own  Italia.  Shall 
we  go  soon  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

The  old  woman  said  nothing,  but  the  young 
husband  could  not  meet  her  glance  that  flashed 
with  jubilant,  vicious  joy. 

Returning  to  Florence,  Vanburg  rented  a  villa 
on  an  eminence  overlooking  the  city.  Here  they 

8 


TITO 

lived  for  nearly  two  years,  Bettina's  love  for  her 
husband,  and  the  sunshine  of  her  native  land,  fill 
ing  her  life  to  completeness. 

Then  came  the  hurried  departure  of  Vanburg 
for  Paris  and  Brussels  on  business  connected  with 
his  property  interests ;  the  premature  birth  of  their 
child;  the  telegram,  directed  to  his  bankers  at 
Paris,  where  it  had  lain  uncalled  for  until  he  had 
returned  from  Brussels  after  an  absence  of  two 
days. 

And  now  Bettina  was  dying;  and  the  young 
husband,  grief-stricken,  was  rushing  south,  his 
heart  sickening  at  the  thought  that  he  might  not 
be  in  time. 


CHAPTER  II. 

IN  intelligence  and  education  Mother  Malenotti 
was  far  above  the  ordinary  peasant,  for  she 
came  of  a  family  of  some  degree  of  affluence; 
but  in  early  life  she  was  left  to  fight  the  battle  with 
poverty.  She  was  forced  to  perform  the  most 
menial  labor,  to  provide  for  her  younger  sister — 
Bettina's  mother — insisting  that  she  maintain,  in 
a  degree,  the  modest  gentility  to  which  she  had 
been  accustomed.  But  the  marriage  of  her  sister 
to  a  poor  artist  wholly  embittered  her  life,  and 
after  the  death  of  Bettina's  mother,  the  only  influ 
ence  to  soften  the  old  woman's  hate  was  the  young 
child,  who  gave  promise  of  great  beauty.  Her 
artist  instinct  Bettina  inherited  from  her  father, 
but  her  desire  to  be  taught  was  at  first  frowned 
upon.  Pier  marked  ability,  however,  overcame 
her  aunt's  bitter  opposition,  and  she  received  such 
instruction  as  the  old  woman,  assisted  by  Pietro, 
could  procure.  It  was  when  the  work  of  the 
young  artist  had  begun  to  attract  attention,  when 
the  hopes  of  the  aunt  and  Pietro  seemed  about  to 
be  realized,  that  Vanburg  first  met  Bettina. 

When  Vanburg  had  asked  their  consent  to  his 
marriage  their  rage  was  beyond  bound.  Again 
was  disappointment  to  enter  their  lives,  again  were 
they  called  upon  to  surrender  all  hope,  all  ambi- 

10 


TITO 

tion;  nothing  remained  but  the  memory  of  their 
years  of  toil — bitterness  for  the  loss  of  their  Bet- 
tina,  hate  for  the  man  who  had  won  her  love. 

Dr.  Remo  had  just  left  Bettina's  bedside.  He 
was  plainly  nervous,  and  refused  to  meet  the  old 
woman's  questioning  glance.  Divining  his  fears, 
she  regarded  him  with  pitying  disdain. 

"Bah!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  disgust, 
"thou  wert  not  always  a  coward.  I  can  remember 
when  fear  did  not  so  easily  move  thee." 

"Hush!"  he  ejaculated. 

"The  child  was  born  dead.  That  you  know! 
for  were  we  not  here  alone?" 

"Enough,"  he  said,  "I  will  come  later  in  the 
night.  She  cannot  last  till  morning.  Before  the 
end  comes  she  may  again  recover  consciousness." 

He  went  out,  followed  to  the  door  by  the  old 
woman. 

"The  coward!"  she  muttered  when  she  was 
alone,  "but  he  dare  not  speak.  He  has  skill,  but 
the  devil  guides  it.  Have  I  assisted  him  these 
years  for  naught?  He  cannot  stay  in  the  country, 
— he  must  not.  After  he  has  gone  there  will  be  no 
one  but  Pietro."  She  chuckled.  "Another  child 
of  the  devil !  but  they  can  wring  nothing  from 
him!  Revenge  is  what  sweetens  his  life,  but  he 
must  wait — his  knife  will  not  grow  dull — nor  rust. 
It  is  I — I,  who  shall  wring  the  heart  of  him  who 
stole  her  from  me.  My  Bettina!" 

Her  voice  choked.  With  the  cry  of  a  wild 
animal,  she  stood  motionless — her  hands  clenched 


ii 


TITO 

in  suppressed  rage,  her  eyes  smouldering  with 
hate. 

"Aye,  Pietro,  thou  angel  with  the  devil's  soul, 
thy  turn  shall  come  when  I  have  tortured  him. 
When  he  feels  what  I  now  feel,  when  he  lives  to 
curse  his  own  child — then,  good  Pietro,  will  I  turn 
him  over  to  thee  for  a  final  reckoning.  Thy  ven 
geance  would  be  too  sure,  too  swift;  mine,  ah!"  a 
devilish  smile  momentarily  dissolved  the  wrinkles, 
"mine  is  the  slow  torture — like  the  point  of  a  pin 
in  the  flesh  that  lies  close  to  the  heart.  And  I  shall 
ask  him  of  the  rich  father  who  would  not  acknowl 
edge  his  wife.  And  his  son  shall  grow  to  hate  him, 
to  curse  his  father, — his  own  flesh  and  blood." 
Again  the  laugh,  again  the  distorted  features; — a 
tirade  of  mutterings,  threats,  curses  and  prayers 
intermingling.  A  silence  followed — the  old 
woman's  mind  lost  in  the  receding  years. 

Rising,  she  prepared  for  the  night,  arranging 
everything  skilfully  and  with  systematic  precision. 
She  moved  about  with  the  soft,  trained  step  of  one 
long  accustomed  to  illness,  for  she  had  been  for 
years  a  mid-wife,  and  it  was  while  acting  in  that 
capacity  that  she  had  obtained  knowledge  which 
now  forced  Dr.  Remo,  without  question  or  com 
ment,  to  do  her  bidding. 

It  was  nearly  dawn  when  the  doctor  returned, 
and  together  the}'  went  into  the  sick  chamber. 

Almost  immediately,  a  quick,  springing  step 
echoed  on  the  board  walk,  and  Vanburg  hurriedly 
entered  the  dining  room. 

Horace  Vanburg  was  not  what  is  termed  distin- 

J2 


TITO 

guished  in  appearance,  neither  was  he  handsome. 
Yet  he  would  attract  a  second  glance  either  of 
admiration  or  respect.  It  was  not  his  face  that 
appealed  to  one  or  commanded  attention : — it 
was  his  closely  knit  figure,  his  massive  shoulders, 
the  well  trained  muscles,  formidable  under  the 
light  clothing  that  covered  them,  that  stamped 
him  as  the  born  and  trained  athlete.  His  face  was 
clean  shaven,  and  he  possessed  no  distinctive  fea 
ture  that  might  be  called  attractive;  but  an  open 
frankness  of  expression,  eyes  that  looked  squarely 
at  you,  never  wavering — fearless,  sturdy  and  inde 
pendent  manhood  was  stamped  on  face  and  form. 
But  he  possessed  one  distinctive  characteristic,  a 
trait  that  for  generations  had  marked  the  Van- 
burgs — a  proud  poise  of  the  head,  which  was 
thrown  back,  giving  to  him  an  air  of  hauteur, 
almost  of  insolence;  but  this  was  the  physical  in 
signia  of  his  race.  True,  he  came  of  a  family  who 
reckoned  pride  a  heritage  that  was  theirs  as  of 
right,  but  his  mind  and  his  heart  and  his  tastes 
were  as  simple  as  those  of  an  untutored  child. 
Physically  he  was  as  nearly  perfect  as  man  attains. 
Only  at  college  sports  had  he  ever  tested  his 
strength  and  endurance — gifts  which  he  was 
almost  unconscious  of  possessing.  He  was  the  sort 
of  man  in  whom  men  confide,  he  was  of  that  order 
of  gentlemen  who  can  command  the  love  of 
woman. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  GLANCE  at  the  faces  of  Mother  Malenotti 
and  her  companion  was  all  that  was  needed 
to  confirm  Vanburg's  fears.  It  was  not  for 
one  of  his  race  to  betray  emotion ;  his  features  were 
as  though  hewn  from  stone,  impenetrable, — a 
blank;  and  his  seeming  lack  of  feeling,  either  of 
concern  or  grief,  the  old  woman  attributed  to  a 
want  of  affection  for  the  young  wife. 

"Bettina!"  Vanburg's  voice  was  husky.  He 
addressed  Mother  Malenotti,  whose  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  his  face  as  if  to  measure,  in  anticipation, 
the  effect  of  her  answer. 

"She  is  very  low.  Three  days  ago  the  child  was 
born  before  its  time.  It  was  born  dead.  Ma 
donna,  my  Bettina !  She  will  die !" 

She  wrung  her  hands,  moaning  with  noisy 
grief,  until  a  warning  glance  from  Dr.  Remo 
caused  her  to  desist.  From  her  eyes,  half  hidden 
under  her  drooping  eyelids,  shot  a  glance  to  note 
the  effect  of  what  she  said, — a  look  searching,  pen 
etrating, — a  look  which  proclaimed  her  inhuman 
disregard  for  the  feelings  of  the  man  who  listened. 
He  stood  silent,  motionless,  then  turned  to  Doctor 
Remo. 

"Is  what  she  says  true?" 

"Yes."  The  answer  came  with  hesitation.  The 
14 


TITO 

doctor  continued  falteringly:  "With  the  exception 
of  a  few  moments  she  has  been  unconscious.  She 
is  slowly  sinking.  Before  the  end  she  may  re 
cover  consciousness,  but  I  fear  she  cannot  last 
till  morning." 

Vanburg  did  not  reply.  He  entered  his  wife's 
room  and  softly  closed  the  door. 

"What  did  I  tell  thee !"  said  Mother  Malenotti, 
when  they  were  alone.  "He  is  glad — glad  that  his 
wife  is  dying.  He  thinks  only  of  the  joy  of  being 
rid  of  her.  Is  it  not  as  I  have  said  ?  And  when  I 
spoke  of  the  child  as  dead  did  I  not  see  the  joy  in 
his  eyes?  Yes,  yes,  the  honeymoon  is  over! 
While  it  lasted  the  passion  lived;  after,  he  must 
look  for  a  new  plaything.  Ah!  the  sweet  Ameri- 
cani,  the  sweet,  gentle,  rich  Amen — Diavolo!  the 
swine !  the " 

Her  companion  held  up  a  warning  finger.  The 
old  woman  ceased  speaking,  but  her  face,  dis 
torted  with  passion,  the  muscles  twitching,  her 
eyes  flashing  her  hate,  was  horrible  to  see. 

Hers  was  not  the  blind,  furious,  unreasoning 
hate  of  one  whose  mind  is  a  mixture  of  chieldish- 
ness  and  brutish  passions.  She  was  endowed 
with  the  instincts  of  the  refined  criminal,  cold,  cal 
culating,  her  reasoning  logical,  though  the  process 
might  be  crude,  carrying  out  her  schemes  with  a 
boldness  that  augured  well  for  success — her  great 
est  danger  the  possibility  that  her  unreasoning 
hate  might  balk  her  own  efforts.  Her  one  pure  in 
stinct  was  her  love  for  her  niece.  The  husband's 
wealth  could  not  influence  her,  and  a  look,  a  word, 

15 


TITO 

a  caress  from  Bettina  brought  with  it  joy  she  would 
not  have  bartered  for  all  the  riches  of  her  own 
Florence.  In  her  love  for  the  young  wife  she  was 
pathetic,  tender ;  in  her  intense  hatred  of  Vanbnrg, 
she  was  demoniacal. 

Vanburg  sat  by  his  dying  wife.  No  outward 
sign  betrayed  the  agony  that  he  felt,  but  at  times 
a  faint  groan,  quickly  stifled,  voiced  his  sorrow. 
It  was  a  sorrow  that  strucL  at  his  heart,  his  hope, 
his  life,  but  it  was  voiceless.  Tears  were  not  for 
him — his  was  a  great,  silent,  immeasurable  grief 
that  wrings  the  heart  dry:  it  was  such  grief  as 
touches  the  very  essence  of  the  soul. 

"Bettina,  love!    Bettina,  Bettina,  my  wife!" 

Though  he  spoke  in  a  whisper,  a  shudder 
seemed  to  sweep  over  her;  then  her  breathing,  for 
an  instant  irregular,  became  almost  imperceptible, 
and  again  she  lay  quite  still. 

The  pallor  of  approaching  death,  though  re 
lieved  by  the  delicate  tint  of  brown  on  her  cheek, 
only  accentuated  her  beauty.  Her  hair,  of  a  dark 
chestnut  hue,  fell  in  wavy  masses  on  the  pillow; 
her  hands,  which  lay  outside  the  coverlet,  were  of 
marvelous  whiteness.  Every  line  of  her  features 
proclaimed  the  artist,  and  were  as  those  of  a  god 
dess  in  marble — the  purity  of  their  exquisite  curves 
rivaling  the  works  of  art  in  the  Gallena  degH  Uffrzi. 
But  it  was  when  she  again  moved,  her  eyelids 
slowly  uplifting,  her  glance  one  of  intelligence, 
when  she  recognized  her  husband,  that  one  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  tenderness  of  the  young  wife. 
Her  dark  hazel  eyes,  the  long  black  lashes  slowly 

16 


TITO 

lifting,  a  veil  to  soften  their  lustre,  seemed  to  dis 
close  the  portals  of  her  soul — their  expression  that 
of  a  wondering  child. 

"Horace,  my  love."    Her  voice  died  to  a  breath. 

"Bettina,  darling." 

"Ah!  I  am  so  glad — you  came.  They — have 
told—" 

"Rest,  Bettina  love,"  he  said,  touching  her  lips 
lightly  in  a  caress,  "they  have  told  me." 

"If  the  child  had  lived—" 

"Do  not  mourn,  my  own,  think  now  only  of  thy 
self." 

"I  think  only  of  thee,  Amore  Mio,  how  lonely — " 

"Hush,  Bettina,  wife,  hush.  Do  not  exhaust 
thyself." 

Often,  in  his  short  life,  had  he  heedlessly  faced 
death  without  a  tremor ;  but  as  he  leaned  over  his 
young  wife  until  his  breath  fanned  her  cheek,  it 
was  only  by  a  command  made  perfect  by  years  of 
self  repression  that  he  controlled  his  voice,  his 
emotions.  It  was  not  for  the  Vanburgs  to  betray 
their  feelings.  You  might  wring  their  hearts, 
but  conjecture  as  to  the  measure  of  their  suffering 
would  be  the  only  reward. 

"Horace,"  her  tone  weak,  faltering,  "let  me  hear 
thy  voice.  Tell  me — what  I  know — so  well,  that 
you  love  me." 

"I  never  realized  till  now  how  well,  my  own. 
But  I  need  not  tell  thee.  Never  has  a  doubt  come 
between  us.  My  love  was  so  great!  If  the 
thought  ever  came  that  I  might  lose  thee,  I  trem- 


TITO 

bled,  love,  with  dread,  with  fear.     Ah,  the  happi 
ness  I  have  known  with  thee — " 

He  dare  not  trust  his  voice  further.  She  sighed 
in  an  ecstasy  of  delight:  her  eyelids  quivered, 
closed,  and  again  it  seemed  as  if  consciousness  had 
left  her. 

In  the  adjoining  room  Mother  Malenotti,  her 
passion  threatening  to  overcome  her,  disregarding 
her  companion's  warning  was  saying : 

"I  will  not  be  quiet!  Will  I  not  say  it  to  him 
when  she  is  gone?  Aye,  that  I  will — and  more. 
And  he  shall  listen.  Dost  thou  hear?  With  all  his 
dirty  wealth  will  he  listen!  And  she  might  have 
married  one  of  her  own  countrymen,  for  she  had 
many  lovers.  And  now,  now  she  must  die!  Why 
do  you  not  go  and  look  at  her  ?  You  coward ! 
You  stand  there  shaking  with  fear — fear!  Of 
what  ?  Fool !  Go  to  her  and  see  if  you  can  turn 
your  devil's  skill  to  any  use." 

She  flashed  a  look  of  disgust  at  him  as  he  en 
tered  the  sick  room. 

After  the  doctor's  cursory  examination,  Van- 
burg's  questioning  glance  was  answered  by  a 
shake  of  the  head.  Bettina  moved  uneasily  and, 
with  a  slight  movement  of  her  hand,  motioned 
the  Doctor  to  withdraw. 

"I  will  call  you  if  you  are  needed,"  Vanburg 
said. 

When  they  were  alone,  Bettina,  with  an  effort, 
turned  her  head  so  that  she  might  see  her  hus 
band's  face.  He  drew  nearer,  for  her  voice  had 
sunk  to  a  whisper. 

18 


TITO 

"I  have  so  much  to  say, — so  much.  Aunt 
Malenotti — " 

"Do  not  distress  thyself,  my  love,  I  shall  see 
that  everything  is  done  for  your  aunt.  Is  there 
nothing  I  can  do  for  thee,  my  Bettina?" 

"Yes,"  she  sighed,  "remember  me,  love." 

A  smile  lingered  on  her  features,  but  it  was  as 
faint  as  the  shadow  of  a  moonbeam.  She  made 
an  effort  to  press  the  hand  that  held  hers,  but  her 
fingers  were  powerless.  Her  glance,  resting  on 
her  husband's  face,  was  one  of  pathetic,  lingering 
tenderness.  She  loved,  as  those  of  her  nation 
ality  love,  intensely,  passionately,  but  subdued 
and  controlled  by  her  finer  instincts,  and  a  nature 
at  once  refined  and  lofty  in  her  high  ideal  of  life. 
The  happiness  of  her  married  life  had  been  com 
plete. 

Vanburg  bent  his  head  to  hear  the  words  that 
formed  on  Bettina's  lips — words  she  was  power 
less  to  utter. 

The  dull  light  of  early  morning  was  touching 
the  peaks  of  the  distant  Apennines — a  shroud  of 
gray  descending  to  the  valley.  It  settled  over  the 
heart  and  the  life  of  Horace  Vanburg.  Bettina's 
lips  moved  in  a  last  effort. 

"Horace — my  own  love." 

That  was  all.  Fate  had  laid  a  heavy  hand  on  the 
man  who  sat  motionless,  stricken  with  a  sor 
row  that  leaves  heart  and  mind  barren  of  feeling — 
the  past  glowing  with  the  brilliancy  of  an  autumn 
sunset, — the  light  of  a  great  love;  the  future — 

19 


CHAPTER    IV. 

A   WEEK  later  Mother  Malenotti  and  Van- 
burg  were  alone  in  the  house,  that  he  was 
visiting  for  the  last  time.     After  Bettina's 
death  he  had  lodged  at  a  hotel  in  the  city,  for  the 
loneliness  of  his  home  oppressed  him ;  and  his  final 
visit  was  for  the  purpose  of  turning  over  the  costly 
furnishings  to  the  old  woman,  and  to  make  provi 
sion  for  her  future. 

Handling  the  bric-a-brac,  weighing  each  piece 
of  silverware  in  her  hand,  speculating  the  while  as 
to  its  worth,  she  listened  to  Vanburg  while  he  told 
her  it  was  hers  to  do  with  as  she  wished,  her  ava 
rice  filling  him  with  disgust.  But  when  he  offered 
to  settle  upon  her  a  competency,  hate  shone  from 
the  eyes  she  turned  to  him.  She  had  enough  for 
the  few  years  that  were  left  her — should  she  re 
quire  more,  there  was  Pietro.  No,  she  would 
accept  no  money;  she  was  alone,  her  needs  were 
few — if  necessary  she  would  work  in  the  fields — 
and  she  resumed  her  mental  estimates  of  the  worth 
of  her  new  belongings.  Vanburg  left  her  standing 
in  the  centre  of  the  room,  her  noisy  grief  ceasing 
as  he  was  about  to  depart,  that  she  might  flash  at 
him  a  look  of  unutterable  hate.  Death  had  not 
softened  her,  and,  had  curses  the  power  the  lowly 
mind  attributes  to  them,  he  might,  in  the  future, 

20 


TITO 

well  believe  the  fates  had  listened  to  her  maledic 
tions. 

Through  the  window  she  watched  his  retreating 
figure ;  then,  shaking  her  clenched  fist  at  him  as  he 
disappeared,  her  cackling  laugh  sent  little  thrills 
of  uncanny  echoes  through  the  deserted  house. 

"You  shall  suffer,  by  the  blood  of  the  Cristo 
shall  you  be  made  to  feel  such  pain  as  only  a  father 
may  know.  We,  of  Italia,  never  forgive!  You 
stole  from  me  the  life  and  the  love  of  Bettina — all 
I  had,  all  I  lived  for !  But  you  have  yet  to  pay  the 
cost — the  cost  of  a  life  agony !  And  the  good  God 
grant  to  you  a  long  life,  that  you  may  live  to  hear 
your  own  flesh  and  blood  curse  you,  aye,  as  I  do 
now.  Will  that  not  wring  your  pride — your  heart  ? 
And  you  will  then  know  that  I,  Angiolina  Male- 
notti,  have  not  forgotten !" 

Again  the  laugh,  the  distorted  features,  the  mut 
tered  oaths ; — dying  into  exclamations  of  covetous 
joy,  of  greed,  as  she  gloatingly  surveyed  the  tap 
estries  and  paintings. 

All  this  was  hers,  and  from  the  proceeds  of  the 
sale  would  come  a  bit  of  land,  a  cottage,  and  in 
different  luxury  for  the  rest  of  her  days.  She 
would  sell  it  all — all  but  a  memento  of  the  dead 
Bettina,  and  taking  from  an  easel  a  portrait  of  the 
Madonna,  the  last  work  of  the  artist  wife,  she 
looked  at  it  long  and  lovingly.  It  was  a  copy  of 
Lippi's  famous  painting,  finished  only  a  few  days 
before  Bettina's  marriage, — her  name  and  Van- 
burg's  entwined  in  the  right  hand  corner  of  the 
unframed  canvas.  This  she  would  keep  to  remind 

21 


TITO 

her  daily  of  the  young  girl  for  whom  she  had 
slaved  in  the  fields;  it  would  also  remind  her  of 
the  wrong  she  had  suffered,  of  her  own  vow  of 
vengeance  yet  to  be  fulfilled. 

With  a  heavy  heart  Vanburg  was  making  prepa 
rations  for  his  journey  to  America.  Silent,  impas 
sive,  with  the  quiet,  methodical  thoroughness  of 
one  who  has  seen  much  travel,  he  attended  per 
sonally  to  every  detail.  With  the  death  of  Bettina, 
hope,  ambition,  courage,  had  gone,  and  with  stolid 
indifference  he  put  all  thought  of  the  future  from 
him.  Life,  shipwrecked  at  the  outset,  was  a  real 
ity,  and  delays  and  inconveniences  he  met  with 
cynical  unconcern,  his  face  expressionless,  his 
mind  in  the  past,  his  physical  being  responding  to 
every  demand  made  upon  it.  On  his  journey  to 
Paris  and  London — he  was  to  take  a  steamer  at 
Liverpool — if  there  were  other  occupants  in  the 
railway  carriage — apart  from  the  knowledge  that 
he  was  not  alone,  he  was  unconscious  of  their  pres 
ence.  Their  voices  were  as  meaningless  sounds, 
and,  sitting  silent,  impassive,  he  journeyed  north. 

Not  until  he  was  aboard  the  steamer  did  the 
nervous  tension  of  the  past  week  relax.  Then  the 
true  measure  of  his  loss,  the  hopelessness  of  his 
future  swept  over  him, — but  the  turmoil  was  deep 
in  his  heart,  in  his  soul,  and  no  trace  of  suffering 
was  noticeable.  Appetite  for  food  was  gone,  the 
power  to  woo  sleep  had  left  him,  and  pacing  the 
deck  through  the  long  hours  of  the  night  brought 
little  relief.  Then  he  drank — he  drank  deeply,  un 
til  his  senses  were  benumbed,  and  sleep  came. 

22 


TITO 

The  long  days  and  the  longer  nights  wore  away, 
and  the  fever  of  hopeless  unrest  was  ever  with 
him;  but  the  expression  of  his  face  remained  the 
same,  imperturbable.  His  step  was  firm,  and  his 
appearance  that  of  the  club  man,  the  aristocrat. 
Years  of  athletic  training,  a  physical  and  mental 
balance  well  nigh  perfect  were,  as  yet,  responding 
to  every  demand. 

Sitting  apart,  neither  seeking  nor  encouraging 
intercourse  with  the  other  passengers,  he  had  time 
to  speculate  of  the  future,  to  think  of  the  home  to 
which  he  was  returning,  of  the  father,  haughty, 
unresponsive,  whose  expression  of  countenance 
would  be  an  hourly  reminder  that  his  son  must 
pay  the  penalty  of  his  lowly  marriage. 

The  journey's  end  reached,  familiar  sounds 
hummed  about  his  ears,  the  rush  of  traffic  roared  a 
welcome,  and,  as  it  was  early  morning  when  he 
arrived,  he  was  driven  to  his  home — to  meet  his 
father  before  he  departed  for  his  downtown  office. 

It  was  not  then  nine  o'clock,  and  when  he  en 
tered  the  house,  he  was  ushered  into  the  dining 
room  where  his  father  wa3  at  breakfast.  A  formal 
greeting,  an  inquiry  as  to  his  health,  and  over  their 
coffee  they  talked  of  matters  connected  with  their 
European  correspondents.  By  letter  Vanburg 
had  informed  his  father  of  Bettina's  death,  but  no 
allusion  was  made  to  his  marriage,  no  word  of 
sympathy,  of  encouragement,  of  affection.  The 
breakfast  finished,  with  the  remark  that  he  was 
some  minutes  late,  his  father  went  out,  and  the 
younger  Vanburg  was  alone. 

23 


TITO 

"Just  Heaven !''  he  exclaimed,  "this  sort  of  thing- 
will  drive  me  mad !  I  can't  stand  this  unnatural 
existence — this  atmosphere  of  reserve  stifles  me. 
Bettina,  love,  if  you  had  only  lived !  You  were  the 
one  tie  that  bound  me  to  life — my  one  hope  of  the 
future.  What  is  there  left?  If  I  had  only  been 
born  a  farmer's  or  a  laborer's  son,  I  might  have 
something  to  live  for,  some  great  ambition  might 
have  been  called  into  life — a  determination  to  suc 
ceed.  I  might  have  had  a  father  with  a  heart — 
now,  nothing  but  this  monstrous  existence,  this 
silent  repression,  unreal,  inhuman.  I  have  seen 
peasants  on  the  continent  eating  black  bread,  and 
I  have  envied  them,  for  they  were  human.  They 
could  smile,  they  could  laugh,  their  eyes  talked 
love,  arid  their  voices  were  natural.  Wealth,  edu 
cation,  social  environments  had  not  dwarfed  their 
souls." 

The  day  following  his  return  to  America  he 
began  his  duties  in  his  father's  office.  But  work 
that  once  had  fired  his  energy  and  ambition  had 
become  distasteful.  What  had  formerly  been  a 
pleasure,  he  now  looked  upon  as  drudgery.  But 
it  was  not  alone  his  duties  that  preyed  upon  his 
mind,  filling  him  with  a  growing  discontent,  it 
was  the  uncongenial  home  life,  the  formality,  the 
studied  politeness  that  maddened  him,  until,  at  the 
end  of  a  day's  work,  he  regarded  the  prospect  of 
his  return  home  with  aversion.  The  seven  o'clock 
dinner,  prolonged,  eaten  in  silence,  save  when  in 
terrupted  by  an  exchange  of  courtesies  that  might 
pass  between  strangers,  filled  him  with  resentment, 

24 


TITO 

and,  after  the  first  few  months,  he  dined  at  his 
club,  or  at  some  fashionable  cafe. 

It  was  Hearing  the  end  of  the  first  year  since  his 
return  to  America, and,  though  outwardly  the  rela 
tions  between  father  and  son  were  unchanged,  both 
were  conscious  of  a  growing  coldness.  Nightly 
the  younger  Vanburg  spent  hours  at  his  club ;  his 
associates  marveling  as  they  watched  his  headlong 
pace, — predicting  an  early  collapse,  speculating  as 
to  the  length  of  time  until  he  reached  the  stage 
that  would  be  social  suicide.  His  sorrow  was  yet 
keen ;  but  his  impassive,  open  expression  of  coun 
tenance  changed  only  when  a  faint,  engaging  smile 
drew  his  friends  still  closer  to  him.  He  had  the 
gift,  rare  as  his  open,  manly  nature,  of  making  no 
enemies.  In  all  the  world  only  two  hearts  were 
turned  against  him.  In  far  away  Italy,  where  his 
love  lay  buried,  two  human  beings  mourned  the 
loss  that  was  his,  but  daily  they  raised  their  voices 
to  record  afresh  their  vow  of  vengeance. 


CHAPTER   V. 

THE  first  year  after  his  return  had  been  to 
Vanburg  a  time  of  fitful  unrest.  His  posi 
tion  in  the  banking  office  had  long  since  be 
come  irksome;  home  life,  and  the  daily  meetings 
with  his  father  over  their  prolonged,  solitary  din 
ner,  usually  eaten  in  silence,  was  repugnant  to  one 
of  his  genial  nature,  and  his  occasional  dining  at 
some  fashionable  restaurant  became  a  fixed  cus 
tom. 

His  father  never  referred  to  his  marriage,  but 
his  attitude  toward  his  son  could  not  be  miscon 
strued — it  was  one  of  silent,  though  unmistakable 
protest.  If  his  son  had  ever  enjoyed  the  confi 
dence  of  his  father  it  was  now  withdrawn,  and 
each  day,  each  hour  of  his  life  he  was  met  with 
chilling,  maddening  reserve,  as  a  reminder  that 
his  marriage  was  neither  forgotten  nor  forgiven. 

Rage  filled  the  heart  of  the  young  man,  for  his 
love  for  Bettina  was  something  sacred ;  his  sorrow 
did  not  lessen  with  time,  for  memory,  to  a  man  of 
his  nature,  refuses  to  be  stilled,  or  to  grant  the 
peace  of  mind  that  would  come  with  forgetful- 
ness. 

He  had  been  in  the  country  with  a  college  friend 
for  a  week's  hunting,  and  on  his  return  had  dined 
at  home.  After  smoking  a  cigar  in  his  own  apart- 

26 


TITO 

inent,  he  was  considering  what  he  would  do  to 
pass  the  evening.  lie  was  in  an  unenviable  frame 
of  mind.  His  reception  by  his  father,  after  his 
absence  was,  if  possible,  marked  by  an  added  re 
serve.  With  a  cynical  laugh  he  threw  his  partly 
smoked  cigar  into  the  open  grate. 

"Sweet  life  to  lead!"  he  ejaculated.  "I  wonder 
what  would  happen  if  one  were  to  really  laugh  in 
this  house?  I  suppose  the  portraits  of  our  patri 
cian  ancestors  on  the  walls  would  reverse  them 
selves  without  human  aid, — or  perhaps  the  ghosts 
of  those  who  never  married  beneath  them  would 
stalk  forth  through  the  halls  in  mute  protest  of 
such  ribald  desecration.  Heigh-ho!  It's  a  weary 
world.  Bettina,  love,  if  all  the  virtues  of  all  the 
Vanburgs  of  all  time  were  concentrated  in  the 
humble  descendant  of  the  race,  he  would  not  be 
worthy  of  thee.  What  would  my  august  father 
say  to  that?  I  believe  I'll  go  to  the  club.  There 
one  can't  think — which,  at  times,  is  a  blessing. 
To-day  is  the  twenty-seventh.  I  am  an  ingrate! 
1  had  forgotten  the  Hollander  reception,  and  I 
promised  Madge  weeks  ago  I  would  be  there. 
Madge, — she's  a  lovely  girl,  and  as  unworldly  as  a 
child ;  and  Ned  is  one  of  the  cleverest  chaps  that  I 
know.  Yet,  I'd  rather  take  a  thrashing  than  meet 
the  crush.  The  unreality  of  it  all!  I  suppose  I 
must  dress.  I'd  as  soon  prepare  for  my  own  exe 
cution.  That,  at  least,  would  have  the  virtue  of 
genuineness.  If  one  didn't  know  everyone  else 
what  a  joy  it  would  be.  The  worst  that  can  be  said 
of  Woman  is  that  she  is  a  creature  of  frivolity  and 

27 


TITO 

— circumstances.  Whatever  vicious  traits  she  may 
possess  are  born  of  vanity.  Man  should  be  honest. 
He  has  an  opportunity  to  see,  to  learn,  to  know, 
to  judge;  yet  I  am  certain  to  meet  someone,  whom 
I  unfortunately  know,  wearing  a  society  mask  that 
he  donned  with  evening  dress,  who,  perhaps, 
cheats  at  cards.  Oh,  this  world  of  sham,  and  de 
ceit  and— it  is  nearly  ten  o'clock !" 

Half  an  hour  later  Vanburg  was  at  the  Hollan 
der's. 

"I  say,  Vannie,"  young  Hollander  was  saying, 
"you  look  done  up;  been  ill?" 

"111!"  Vanburg  laughed.  "Don't  even  know 
what  a  headache  is  like." 

"I  missed  you  for  the  past  week.  Been  out  of 
town  ?" 

"Up  the  state  with  Worthington,  hunting,  near 
his  country  place.  Fine  time.  Plenty  of  game, 
and  a  host  who  can  tell  what  a  good  cigar  is  like." 

"I  envy  you  your  vacation.  Do  you  know,  I 
don't  fancy  this  sort  of  thing.  It's  Madge's  and 
mother's  affair.  Have  you  seen  Madge?" 

"For  only  a  moment.  She  is  so  occupied  with 
her  guests  I  felt  guilty  of  trespass.  Perhaps  I  can 
have  a  word  with  her  later." 

"Well,  you  needn't  feel  guilty — she's  been  ask 
ing  for  you.  She  has  a  wonderful  new  charity 
scheme.  The  East  Side  and  all  that.  You  know 
what  young  girls  are!  At  some  period  of  their 
innocent  lives  they  believe  themselves  divinely 
commissioned  to  consecrate  their  spare  funds,  and 
ill-directed  energies,  to  charity.  For  the  past  year 

28 


TITO 

she  has  managed  to  wheedle  the  greater  part  of 
my  salary  from  me.  Why,  she's  as  practical  as 
the  Governor!" 

Vanburg  smiled.  He  had  more  than  a  brother's 
appreciation  for  Madge. 

"You  may  not  believe  me,"  resumed  Hollander, 
noting  Vanburg's  smile,  "but  wait !  She'll  'touch' 
you  for  your  last  quarter's  salary." 

They  were  not  to  remain  long  in  doubt.  Madge 
Hollander  approached.  She  had  not  yet  reached 
her  twentieth  birthday,  but  her  carriage,  and  her 
perfect  self-possession,  was  that  of  one  who  was 
many  years  older  in  the  knowledge  of  the  world 
and  its  ways.  Her  gown,  severe  in  its  simplicity, 
accentuated  the  lines  of  her  perfect  figure,  but 
added  nothing  to  her  beauty.  A  frankness  of  ex 
pression,  a  piquant  audacity,  born  of  a  pure  mind 
and  ignorance  of  fear,  a  srnile  that  invited  confi 
dence,  put  you,  meeting  her  for  the  first  time,  at 
ease.  But  in  the  gray  eyes  that  looked  squarely 
into  yours,  until  it  seemed  as  if  they  would  unmask 
every  indiscretion  in  your  past  life,  there  was  an 
expression  of  authoritative  reserve.  Under  the 
long  black  eyelashes  you  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
woman,  pure  in  thought,  willing  to  believe  that 
nothing  but  good  exists,  yet  endowed  with  Man's 
knowledge  of  the  world.  What  you  saw  was  as  a 
flashlight  on  the  curtain  of  the  soul.  What  lay 
beyond,  you  could  not  tell. 

"Mr.  Vanburg,"  she  began. 

"Mr.  Vanburg,"  he  repeated,  mimicking  her 
formal  tone.  "Since  when  have  I  become  Mr. 

29 


TITO 

Vanburg?  Dear  me!  How  deliciously  formal 
young  ladies  become  when  society  declares  them 
old  enough  to  discard  short  frocks." 

"There,  Horace,  don't  make  fun!  We  aren't 
now  playing  tennis  in  the  country." 

"No,"  he  laughed,  "nor  fishing  at  Willoughby 
Lake." 

Madge  flushed  with  pleasure,  and  her  eyes 
danced  at  the  remembrance. 

"Those  were  the  short  frock  days,"  she  laughed. 
"I  wish  they  could  have  lasted  always." 

"What!  and  forego  this?"  His  glance  swept 
the  crowded  room  with  a  significance  she  under 
stood. 

"It  would  not  be  a  hardship,"  she  rejoined. 
"Our  world  is  growing  much  like  an  over-culti 
vated  orchid.  It  needs  the  freshness  of  the  early 
summer  morning  to  revive  it.  Its  brilliancy  dead 
ens  the  senses,  and  we  are  becoming  intellectually 
inert.  We  are  in  need  of  a  moral  tonic." 

"Epigrammatic,  metaphoric,  moralistic !  Quite ! 
With  what  wisdom  have  your  advanced  years  been 
blessed !" 

"There,  you  won't  be  serious.  Let  us  sit  here. 
That's  the  new  opera  tenor  who  is  singing.  Do 
you  care  to  hear  him  ?" 

"Not  if  you  will  consent  to  talk  to  me." 

They  sat  on  a  divan  at  the  far  end  of  the  room, 
apart  from  the  crowd  who  were  listening  to  the 
singing  in  the  drawing  room.  Madge  was  eager 
to  unfold  her  new  charitable  scheme,  and  her  com 
panion  smiled  at  her  youthful  enthusiasm.  Her 

30 


TITO 

cheeks  glowed,  her  eyes  voicing  the  pleasure  that 
was  to  accompany  the  unfolding  of  her  wonderful 
project. 

"Now,"  she  began  with  an  air  of  matronly  seri 
ousness,  "I  am  going  to  tell  you  of  our  new — " 

"Society  with  a  long  name,"  interrupted  Van- 
burg,  laughing.  "It  wouldn't  do  to  have  a  short 
one.  This  society,  if  I  have  grasped  the  idea,  is 
going  to  revolutionize  the  East  Side.  How  much 
do  I  give?" 

"Ned  has  been  talking  to  you.  That  boy !  All 
he  cares  for  is  golf  and  new  plays !  He  can't  take 
things  seriously," — then  with  a  crestfallen  air: 
"and  I  had  anticipated  the  pleasure  of  telling  you 
all  about  it." 

"In  that  you  shall  not  be  disappointed,"  Van- 
burg  replied.  "I  am  here  to  listen.  But  first  you 
may  put  my  name  down  for  whatever  you  wish." 

"It  is  not  alone  your  money  we  want — it's  your 
co-operation." 

"Well,"  he  laughed,  "you  may  put  my  name 
down  on  your  list  for  that,  too,  and  draw  on  me. 
I'll  honor  the  draft  on  sight." 

"But  I  must  explain  our  project,  perhaps  you 
would  not  approve  of  it." 

"You  are  concerned  in  it?" 

"Yes,  I'm  the  secretary."  This  with  a  proud 
uplifting  of  her  shoulders. 

"In  that  case,"  he  rejoined,  "you  may  double 
the  original  amount  of  my  subscription.  I  have 
no  way  of  knowing  what  you  have  mentally  as- 


TITO 

sessed  me,  hut  it  doesn't  matter.  Multiply  it  by 
two." 

"You're  the  same  Horace  as  when  we  danced 
together  in  the  old  days.  Dear  me!  How  aged 
we  have  grown.  Now,  you  never  dance."  Then 
as  if  voicing  a  recurring  thought,  "Somehow,  since 
your  return  from  Europe  you  are  not  quite  the 
same.  At  times  I  can  read  in  your  eyes  the 
shadow  of  a  story.  You  know  if  a  man  feels  at  all, 
he  feels  intensely,  and  he  is  very  apt  to  betray  his 
feelings.  Men  are  more  honest  than  women — also 
less  artful.  A  man's  face  is  a  photographic  gallery 
where  hang  his  heart  pictures.  Before  a  woman 
allows  sorrow  or  kindred  emotions  to  reach  her 
heart,  she  consults  a  mirror  to  arrange  her  expres 
sions  becomingly.  Above  all  things  that  a  woman 
dislikes,  is  to  have  the  world  believe  she  is  un 
happy." 

Vanburg,  interested  and  smiling,  listened  to  the 
young  girl.  Was  she  the  Madge  he  had  known? 
No.  The  eyes  that  met  his  with  daring  candor 
were  those  of  a  woman  of  the  world — one  who  had 
suddenly  grown  old  in  the  knowledge  of  things 
that  be. 

"Why,  Madge,  who  would  ever  have  thought 
it !  Now  you  are  a  sage.  But  let  us  return  to  the 
charity  work.  Tell  me  all  about  it." 

Vanburg's  light,  bantering  tone  did  not  wholly 
deceive  his  listener.  On  his  part,  never  before  had 
he  been  tempted  as  then — to  tell  her  the  story  of 
his  love  and  his  loss ;  for  he  trusted  her  as,  perhaps, 

32 


TITO 

he  trusted  no  other  human  being.  But  the  incli 
nation  was  but  momentary. 

Madge  outlined  the  work  she  was  doing,  work 
which,  with  the  assistance  of  others,  she  hoped  to 
accomplish. 

"And,"  she  was  saying,  as  her  brother  ap 
proached,  "this  little  one  is  under  my  personal 
supervision.  Her  name  is  Wilhelmina.  Her 
father,  John  McGlennon,  is,  unfortunately,  ad 
dicted  to  drink.  Yet  at  some  period  of  his  life  he 
must  have  been  a  gentleman.  He  is  highly  edu 
cated,  but  now  works  as  a  porter.  The  child  is  a 
lovable  little  creature.  Willie,  I  call  her;  her 
father  calls  her  'Bill.'  I  don't  fancy  the  diminu 
tive,  but  then  he  is  her  father,  and  notwithstanding 
his  habits,  the  child  idolizes  him." 

"Now,  Vannie,  we  know  where  our  money  goes. 
It's  as  easy  as  the  rule  of  Three.  From  Madge  to 
the  child,  then  to  the  father,  who  once  was  a  gen 
tleman  and  now  lifts  boxes,  then  to — " 

"There,  Ned,  that  will  do!  You  assume  alto 
gether  too  much."  She  flashed  a  reproving  look 
at  her  brother.  "The  child's  father  would  not  ac 
cept  a  penny." 

"Here,  then,"  persisted  Ned,  "is  something  new 
in  the  history  of  the  world's  affairs — a  father  who 
drinks,  and  who  will  not  take  money,  intended  for 
his  daughter,  to  pay  for  it.  Madgie,  you  tax  our 
credulity  beyond — ' 

"Horace,"  said  Madge,  refusing  to  reply  to  her 
brother's  remarks,  "will  you  consent  to  go  with  us 
some  day  after  office  hours,  to  McGlennon's 

33 


TITO 

home?  I  know  you  will  feel  more  satisfied  after 
the  visit,  and  my  protege  will  be  delighted." 

"Any  day  you  choose,"  said  Vanburg,  smiling. 

"Then  let  it  be  to-morrow.  You  will  call  for  us 
at  papa's  office?" 

"Us?"  queried  Ned,  excitedly.  "Who  might 
'us'  refer  to?" 

"You  and  me,"  quietly  answered  Madge.  Then 
turning  to  Vanburg,  "You  will  excuse  me." 

Vanburg  rose,  and  Madge  entered  the  drawing 
room.  The  glance  of  the  two  men  followed  her  to 
the  door.  Her  brother's  one  of  conscious  pride; 
in  the  eyes  of  Vanburg  an  expression  approaching 
reverence. 

"I  say,  Vannie,"  said  his  companion,  turning  to 
him  with  mock  wrath,  "you're  a  fine  fellow! 
What  kind  of  a  mess  have  you  got  me  into?  The 
East  Side,  hard  luck  stories  and  all  that !" 

"Never  mind,  dear  boy,  Madge  is  worth  the 
effort  many  times  over.  Besides,  it  will  do  us 
good.  Wre  know  altogether  too  much  of  our  own 
world  and  too  little  of  the  other.  You  will  come 
round  to  the  club?" 

"Yes,  if  it's  not  too  late." 

After  taking  leave  of  his  hostess  Vanburg 
-walked  slowly  down  the  avenue. 

When  he  entered  the  club  room  he  was  met  by 
a  volley  of  vociferous  greetings  from  a  party  of 
young  men  sitting  about  a  card  table,  and  he  lis 
tened  with  feelings  akin  to  pleasure.  They  were  a 
manly  set, — full  chested  and  broad  shouldered; 
and  though  they  had  drunk  freely,  their  eyes  were 

34 


TITO 

clear,  for  they  were  in  a  physical  condition  due  to 
constant  athletic  training. 

"Davis,"  said  ITarriman,  "you  must  write  an  ode 
to  the  return  of  the  prodigal;  meanwhile,  we'll 
drink." 

''And  eat,"  said  Davis,  "the  Muse  works  better 
on  blue  points  and  Mumms." 

"Insatiable  Muse!  Ned  Hollander,  you're  just 
in  time,  old  man.  Wine  or  beer?" 

''Sherry,"  answered  Hollander.  "Clean  done 
up.  Social  duties,  you  know." 

"I  say,  we've  been  trying-  to  wring  from  Van 
where  he's  been  for  a  week  past.  He's  as  mum  as 
one  of  the  oysters  that  Davis  is  feeding  to  the 
Muse.  When  it  comes  to  divulging  things,  Van- 
nie  is  as  close  as  a  precinct  captain.  Come,  Davis, 
is  the  Muse  ready?  Give  us  something  on  the 
tender  passion.  Our  friend  Van  has  been  rusticat 
ing  in  the  country.  Now  some  fair  dairy-maid's 
heart  is  like  the  pitcher  at  the  well — broken." 

Davis  chanted  sotto  voce: 

"Oh,  love  is  like  a  bird  in  flight, 

That's  ever  on  the  wing,  Tra-la; 
Forever  trying  to  alight, 

The  simple,  foolish  thing,  Tra-la. 

Oh,  little  bird  be  wary  thou, 

For  danger  lies  in  wait  for  thee; 

You  listen!    Can't  you  hear  it  now? 
'Tis  calling !    'Tis  a  mate  for  thee. 

35 


TITO 

Take  care,  oh  little  bird,  take  care, 
The  tale  of  love  is  new  to  thee : 

A  lover's  words  are  always  fair; 
While  wooing,  he  is  true  to  thee." 

"That's  fairly  good,  Davis ;  continue  feeding  the 
Muse  and  rhyme  some  more.  Suppose  you  fel 
lows  heard  that  Lawrenceson  made  $50,000  or 
more  floating  the  New  Consolidated." 

"Did  he?  Lucky  dog!  Somehow  everything 
he  touches  turns  to  money.  Van,  are  you  in  the 
market?" 

"Not  to  any  dangerous  extent,"  he  laughed. 
"Governor  won't  allow  it.  I'm  on  the  same  foot 
ing  with  the  other  clerks.  'Gainst  the  rules,  you 
know." 

"I'd  like  to  see  the  rules  made  that  you'd  fol 
low.  The  old  gent's  the  only  living  being  who 
can  keep  you  in  trim." 

"Good  old  chap,  the  governor,"  replied  Van- 
burg. 

"You're  easily  satisfied,  Vannie.  If  my  gov 
ernor  was  the  head  of  one  of  the  largest  banking 
houses  in  the  city,  I'd  see  myself  doing  the  grind 
you  follow.  Guess  not !  During  the  summer,  I'd 
condescendingly  allow  the  light  of  my  counte 
nance  to  cast  its  refulgent  rays  on  Newport. 
Cairo  would  be  good  enough  in  winter." 

"I  rather  think  the  governor  knows  what  is  best 
for  me.  I  have  more  faith  in  him  than  he  has  in 
me.  Besides,  you  forget  that  I'm  quite  content." 

36 


TITO 

"Some  people  are  easily  satisfied, — I've  noticed 
that." 

In  the  rear  of  the  room  two  elderly  gentlemen 
were  smoking,  exchanging  confidences  and  the 
gossip  of  the  street.  The  elder  of  the  two  was 
saying: 

"Young  Vanburg  is  going  the  pace.  Wonder 
his  father  doesn't  curb  him." 

"Let  him  alone.  We  were  young  once ;  and  he'll 
tone  down.  They  tell  me  his  father  bears  harder 
on  him  than  on  any  clerk  in  his  employ.  If  he 
were  my  boy,  I  would  be  proud  to  take  him  into 
the  firm.  What  can  be  gained  by  these  radical 
measures?  It's  a  wonder  the  young  man  doesn't 
bolt.  He  is  a  fine,  fearless  fellow;  yet  there's 
something  about  him  that  I  can't  fathom — his  very 
frankness  baffles  me.  I  like  the  boy;  though  I'm 
free  to  admit  I  don't  understand  him." 

"He  comes  by  it  naturally,"  remarked  the  other. 
"If  his  father  is  not  what  might  be  termed  unfath 
omable,  then  the  hieroglyphics  on  the  Egyptian 
Sphinx  are  as  A,  B,  C.  His  nature  seems  com 
pletely  soured." 

"Some  trouble,  wasn't  it?  Divorced  from  the 
wife,  who  died  shortly  after?  I  have  forgotten  the 
story." 

"That's  why  he  is  so  severe  on  the  boy.  You 
can't  make  blood  out  of  water,  neither  can  you 
make  water  out  of  blood.  The  young  fellow  is 
full  of  life;  but  I'm  afraid  he's  living  a  bit  high. 
His  father  must  know  it  ?" 

"How  can  he  help  it, — the  boy  lives  at  home? 
37 


TITO 

He  ought  to  behave.  He  has  a  fine  prospect 
ahead  of  him.  Edwin  Vanburg  must  be  worth 
from  three  to  five  millions — surely  that.  He'll 
never  marry  again." 

"There  was  some  talk  of  the  boy  being  en 
gaged  to  young  Hollander's  sister." 

"So  I  believe.  Never  gave  much  credence  to 
the  report.  She's  a  beautiful  girl,  and  he  couldn't 
do  better.  I  hardly  think,  though,  he's  of  the 
marrying  kind." 

The  laughter  of  the  young  men  interrupted. 

"You're  not  going  now?"  Harriman's  voice  was 
entreating.  "It's  early.  Gad,  you  must  have  a 
rendezvous.  It's  only  twelve  o'clock." 

"Must  be  getting  home,"  Vanburg  replied. 

A  chorus  of  good  natured  raillery  followed  him 
to  the  door. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

IT  is  not  good  to  look  into  the  faces  of  human 
beings  that  have  lost  every  vestige  of  the  in 
tellectual,  faces  upon  which  crime  and  vicious- 
ness  have  left  their  stamp.  It  is  not  pleasant  to 
meet  eyes  and  read  their  story  of  guilt,  of  sorrow, 
of  dishonor;  to  look  at  cheeks,  to  which  shame  can 
lend  no  color,  cheeks  that  had,  at  some  time,  been 
touched  by  a  mother's  embrace;  to  hear  voices 
hard,  metallic,  rasping,  breathing  oaths  that  should 
have  scorched  the  lips  of  the  abandoned  speakers. 
All  this  is  debasing  and  soul-harrowing,  yet  it  is 
pathetic  beyond  human  power  to  describe,  and  it 
was  this  that  met  the  eyes  and  the  ears  of  Madge 
and  her  companions  in  the  late  afternoon  as  they 
crossed  the  Bowery  on  their  way  to  McGlennon's. 
Madge  had  insisted  on  walking,  preferring  that 
her  visit  should  be  made  in  an  unostentatious  man 
ner;  but  the  sight  of  the  human  wrecks,  and  what 
she  was  forced  to  hear,  gave  her  a  feeling  of  heart- 
sickness.  Her  brother's  scolding,  for  coming  into 
the  locality,  she  listened  to  without  protest — her 
only  answer  a  smile  of  affection. 

Fifteen  minutes'  walk  and  they  were  before  the 
home  of  the  McGlennon's.  The  entrance  from  the 
street  was  through  an  alleyway  leading  to  a  court. 
Here  a  new  world  seemed  to  confront  them.  On 

39 


TITO 

four  sides  rose  dilapidated  frame  buildings,  their 
rickety  walls  scarcely  able  to  support  the  crum 
bling  eves,  whose  zigzag  course  cut  fantastic  fig 
ures  against  the  blue  of  the  sky  above — the  walls 
seeming  on  the  point  of  tumbling  into  the  narrow 
court.  It  was  as  though  the  buildings  had  been 
caught  in  an  avalanche  of  the  moving  world, 
which  threatened  to  terminate  their  existence  in 
its  grinding  embrace.  For  only  one  hour  of  the 
twenty-four  did  the  sun's  rays  touch  the  brick 
pavement  of  the  dismal  court;  for  the  remainder 
of  the  day  and  the  night,  gloom,  like  a  blanket  of 
sorrow,  fell  upon  its  desolate  confines.  This  was 
Shadow  Alley,  and  those  so  unfortunate  as  to  call 
the  place  home,  prayed  with  lusty  zeal  when  their 
hearts  turned  to  Heaven,  fought  in  drunken  frenzy 
when  occasion  demanded,  or  cursed  the  fates  that 
had  frowned  upon  their  illspent  lives. 

Madge  and  her  companions  mounted  the  rick 
ety  stairs  to  the  second  floor,  where  they  were  met 
by  McGlennon's  daughter,  who  had  seen  them 
enter  the  court.  Madge  greeted  the  child  affec 
tionately.  Bill  held  out  her  hand  to  the  two  men 
with  engaging  frankness. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  came,"  she  said. 

Madge  and  the  child  talked  together  in  low 
tones,  which  gave  the  two  men  opportunity  to 
observe  and  ponder.  This  was  a  phase  of  life  they 
had  never  before  encountered: — the  cheerless 
room,  the  pine  table,  the  few  wooden  chairs,  the 
mournful,  lamenting  tick-tack  of  the  clock  on  the 
mantel,  in  harmony  with  the  heart-depressing  bar- 

40 


TITO 

renness  of  its  surroundings.  But  the  floor  had 
been  scrubbed  clean  until  the  worn  boards  seemed 
to  protest  as  they  lay  in  little  ridges  and  gullies, 
and,  like  an  old  garment,  its  patches  and  scars  told 
its  own  story  of  age  and  of  wear. 

Bill,  in  dress  and  general  appearance,  was  in 
keeping  with  the  room,  in  fact,  she  seemed  a  part 
of  it.  She  was  as  clean  as  was  the  floor,  as  pre 
cise 'and  as  methodical  as  was  the  clock,  and  quite 
as  old  fashioned.  Her  boots  shone  like  the  little 
iron  cook  stove  in  the  corner,  and,  like  the  stove, 
they  had  as  many  rents  and  scars  and  patches  hid 
den  under  a  shiny  coat  of  polish.  The  color  of  the 
print  dress  she  wore  was  what  might  be  chosen  by 
such  an  old  fashioned  little  woman,  and  matched 
the  paintless  table  and  chairs  to  a  nicety  and — 
here  was  the  saddest  point  of  resemblance — her 
face  was  the  color  of  the  whitewashed  ceiling, 
her  extreme  pallor,  and  high  forehead,  making  her 
appear  years  older  than  she  was.  Care,  worry,  and 
the  lack  of  good  nourishment  had  retarded  the 
growth  of  her  body,  but  her  mind,  under  the  pres 
sure  of  responsibility,  had  raced  ahead  into  the 
domain  of  womanhood. 

"He  will  be  here  soon,"  she  was  saying  to 
Madge.  "They  discharged  him  this  morning  be 
cause  he  was  late.  I  feel  so  sorry!  and  you  don't 
know  how  good  he  is!" 

Her  look  of  displeasure  was  a  protest  against 
an  unthinking  world,  that  could  discriminate 
against  her  father's  habitual  condition. 

41 


TITO 

Madge  smoothed  her  hair  gently.  "Never 
mind,"  she  said,  "we  must  get  him  another  place." 

A  heavy  step  on  the  stairs  announced  McGlen- 
non's  return.  The  door  opened  and  he  paused  on 
the  threshold,  looking  at  one  and  then  another  of 
the  occupants  of  the  room.  He  reeled  where  he 
stood,  but  recognizing  Madge,  removed  his  cap, 
and  bowed  to  her  with  easy  grace,  a  courtesy 
which  included  her  companions. 

Even  in  his  workman's  garb  he  was  a  remark 
able  looking  man,  his  herculean  chest  and  shoul 
ders,  owing  to  his  extreme  height,  which  was  over 
six  feet,  being  in  perfect  proportion.  Though 
under  the  influence  of  drink  he  stood  erect,  his 
finely  formed  head  thrown  back,  his  unconscious 
attitude  one  of  equality.  At  some  time  in  the  past 
he  had  been  a  gentleman  of  refinement,  of  educa 
tion,  and  time  and  dissipation  had,  as  yet,  failed  to 
wholly  efface  the  stamp  of  respectability. 

"Bill,"  he  said  apologetically,  "I  didn't  know 
that  you  had  visitors.  Pardon  me,"  he  said, 
thickly,  "I  believed  my  daughter  to  be  alone. 
Don't  let  me  disturb  you.  You  see,"  he  continued, 
"Bill  doesn't  mind  when  I  am — well,  under  the 
influence  of  drink;  and,  ordinarily,  there's  no  one 
else  to  consider.  Had  I  known,  Miss,"  he  ad 
dressed  Madge,  "that  you  were  here,  though  the 
knowledge  would  have  made  no  difference  in  my 
condition,  it  would  have  led  me  elsewhere.  Bill," 
he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  the  child's  head,  "I'm 
sorry,  I'm  very  sorry  I  came  home;  I'll  go  out 

42 


TITO 

again.  You  may  then  apologize  for  your  father. 
It's  not  nice,  child,  but  it's  necessary." 

His  daughter  held  his  hand  closer.  The  young 
men  exchanged  glances.  Who  was  this  man 
whose  manner  indicated  education  and  good 
breeding?  He  spoke  with  a  slight  Scotch  accent, 
but  the  tone  of  his  voice  was  that  of  a  scholar  and 
a  gentleman. 

"You  are  surprised,"  he  said,  addressing  Van- 
burg,  "so  am  I,  and  yet, — no!  it's  of  my  own 
choosing.  Once  I  was  not  a  porter.  My  profes 
sion  now  is  to  lift  boxes.  Eh,  gad!  that's  some 
thing  of  an  art  to  do  well.  Bill,  dear,  if  you  wish 
to  talk  to  the  lady,  invite  her  into  the  other  room. 
You  see,"  he  continued  jocularly  with  a  wave  of 
his  hand,  "we  have  a  suite.  Yon  is  Bill's  room." 

Madge  and  Bill  went  into  the  adjoining  room, 
her  father's  eyes  following  them  to  the  door. 

"Young  man,"  said  McGlennon  in  a  steadier 
voice,  "I,  too,  once  bore  the  stamp  of  respecta 
bility  ;  but  that  is  so  long  ago !  I  wouldn't  remem 
ber  the  time  if  I  could.  There  are  two  classes  of 
persons  that  remember, — those  whom  memory 
benefits  and  fools.  So  I  have  forgotten  all  but — 
Bill.  When  my  memory  becomes  obtrusive,  I  get 
drunk.  It  needs  no  logic  to  convince  you  that 
drunkards  can't  remember,  hence  I  won't  attempt 
it." 

"It's  plain  to  be  seen,"  said  Vanburg,  "that  you 
were  not  always  in  such  circumstances  as,  unfort 
unately,  we  now  find  you." 

"No,"  he  answered  in  a  firmer  tone,  "but  that 
43 


TITO 

was  at  a  time  I  would  forget.  Memory  is  the  least 
merciful  of  our  faculties — it  is  domineering,  relent 
less.  Drink  is  its  only  master — hence  I  am  drunk 
most  of  the  time.  When  I  am  not,  it  is  because  of 
lack  of  funds.  That,"  he  laughingly  continued,  "is 
a  logical  excuse,  if  not  a  moral  one." 

Vanburg  and  his  companion  listened  in  wonder; 
yet  they  readily  divined  that  some  mystery  in  the 
life  of  this  man  had  turned  the  current  of  his 
existence. 

They  were  about  to  go  and,  as  Madge  and  Bill 
descended  the  stairs,  Ned  caught  Vanburg's  eye. 
Understanding  the  look,  young  Hollander  fol 
lowed  his  sister  and  left  him  alone  with  McGlen- 
non. 

Vanburg  took  a  bank  bill  from  his  pocket  and 
was  about  to  place  it  on  the  mantel,  when  Mc- 
Glennon,  anticipating  the  action,  raised  his  hand 
in  protest.  In  an  instant  he  seemed  perfectly  so 
bered.  His  form  straightened  and  he  shook  his 
head. 

"As  a  loan,"  Vanburg  said. 

"No,  I  appreciate  your  motive,  but  I  can  get  on 
without  the  money;  besides  it  would  go  where 
all  my  earnings  have  found  their  way — to  the 
saloon.  Thank  you,  but  I  will  not  accept  it.  It 
is  not  for  love  of  liquor  that  I  drink — it  helps 
me  to  forget." 

"Sir,"  replied  Vanburg,  "I  realize  what  you 
have  gone  through.  We  are,  in  a  sense,  comrades 
in  misfortune."  He  held  out  his  hand.  McGlen- 


44 


TITO 

non  grasped  it  eagerly  and,  standing  proudly 
erect,  looked  squarely  at  his  companion. 

"Good  bye,"  he  said.  "We  shall,  I  trust,  see 
each  other  again." 

Vanburg  rapidly  descended  the  stairs  and  to 
gether  the  three  turned  homeward. 

After  leaving  Madge  and  her  brother,  he  entered 
an  uptown  cafe,  and  seated  himself  at  a  table. 

It  was  nearing  his  dinner  hour,  but  he  had  no 
intention  of  going  home.  Only  on  rare  occasions 
did  he  dine  with  his  father,  for  he  was  conscious 
that  their  relations  were  strained,  and  he  usually 
sought  restaurants  or  hotels  where  he  would  be 
least  likely  to  meet  acquaintances. 

"What  has  crossed McGlennon's  life?"  he  mused. 
"I  can  picture  him  when  he  was  my  age,  and 
what  a  specimen  of  manhood  he  must  have  been. 
And  now,  he  is  fast  becoming  a  wreck,  a  physical 
derelict, — all  but  his  mind,  which  refuses  the 
peace  he  craves,  and  tortures  him.  That  is, 
also,  very  much  alive.  What  a  hell  his  life  must 
be !  Regrets  and  remorse.  If  it  weren't  for  the 
child,  he  would  kill  himself  with  drink.  Unless 
my  judgment  has  already  begun  to  feel  the  effect 
of  this  red  devil  here — "  he  held  the  whiskey  in 
his  hand — "McGlennon  is  a  University  man. 
And  now  he  lifts  boxes.  Merciful  Heaven !  The 
effect  is  apparent.  I  wonder  if  drink  was  the 
effect  or  the  cause?  Anyway,  he  is  living  in  hell. 
Shall  I  reach  such  a  stage?  Do  not  all  reach  it? 
And  the  torment  will  be  kept  alive  because  the 
mind  refuses  to  crumble  with  the  decaying  body. 

45 


TITO 

And  there  will  be  days  and  nights,  and  nights  and 
days;  and  then,  Heaven  willing,  madness  comes. 
Am  I  starting  on  the  road  that  leads  to — will  it 
end  in  drink  and  forgetfulness  or — I  shudder  at 
the  other — the  years  of  damnable  torture — a 
memory  that  will  not  die!  I  am  throwing  down 
the  gauntlet  to  fate,  playing  with  dice  that  are 
loaded;  and  yet,  what  is  there  left  for  me?  My 
sun  has  reached  the  meridian  and  is  slowly  sinking. 
Eh,  faith !  I'll  send  it  down  in  a  blaze  of  glory." 


46 


CHAPTER   VII. 

AFTER  dining  at  an  uptown  hotel,  Vanburg 
went  to  the  club.  The  rooms  were  nearly 
deserted,  a  few  of  the  older  members  loung 
ing  in  comfortable  easy  chairs,  exchanging  notes 
of  the  business  world,  or  enjoying  their  after  din 
ner  cigar,  and  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  relief  that  he 
noted  the  absence  of  the  younger  set — those  who 
were  his  particular  friends.  His  entrance  was  un 
noticed  and,  taking  a  magazine  from  the  table,  he 
sank  into  an  armchair  which  faced  the  door,  and 
began  lazily  turning  the  leaves.  But  he  was 
in  no  humor  to  read,  and,  glancing  at  the  engrav- 
irigs,  laid  the  book  on  the  table  beside  him. 

"I  wonder,"  he  mused,  "if  the  articles  in  that 
magazine  inspired  such  outrageously  bad  art." 

Settling  himself  comfortably,  he  puffed  rings  of 
smoke  into  the  air,  quite  unconscious  of  the  sound 
of  voices  behind  him.  But  as  though  his  ear  was 
tuned  to  the  name,  he  heard  his  own  mentioned. 
The  speaker  had  raised  his  voice  in  indignant  pro 
test. 

"The  whole  proceeding  is  a — outrage.  While 
the  young  man  was  absent,  his  father  employed  an 
expert  to  go  over  his  books.  No  attempt  at 
secrecy  was  made — every  clerk  in  the  office  knows 
it." 

47 


TITO 

"Davis  says  his  father  cabled  to  Europe  to  look 
into  his  transactions  abroad." 

"Davis  is  a  cad.  He  talks  too  much;  yet  it's 
quite  true." 

"Horace  can't  know  of  it;  he's  not  one  of  the 
kind  to  stand  such  treatment — even  from  his 
father." 

"All  rot — sheer  rot !  They  found  errors,  evi 
dence  of  carelessness,  that's  all." 

"His  father  believed  him  to  be  speculating 
heavily.  Mark  me !  When  the  young  fellow 
learns  the  truth,  which  he  must,  there'll  be  the 
devil  to  pay!  I  have  known  him  since  boyhood, 
and  will  bank  my  life  on  his  honor  and  his  hon 
esty." 

Vanburg,  his  elbow  resting  on  the  cushioned 
side  of  the  chair,  his  forearm  upright,  between  his 
fingers  a  partly  smoked  cigar  burning  feebly,  lis 
tened  :  on  his  face  the  same  expression  as  when 
Mother  Malenotti  had  told  him  that  Bettina  would 
die.  Placing  the  cigar  between  his  lips,  his  arms 
resting  on  the  sides  of  the  capacious  chair,  he 
resumed  smoking.  But  a  faint,  cynical  smile 
played  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth, — a  smile 
that  those  who  knew  him  well  would  have  recog 
nized  as  a  danger  signal.  It  was  with  such  a  smile 
he  had  faced  his  opponents  on  the  football  field 
in  some  of  the  hardest  fought  games  during 
his  college  career.  It  was  with  the  same  look  of 
smiling  unconcern  that,  in  southern  Italy,  he  had 
stood  before  an  enraged  Italian  who,  with  uplifted 
knife,  had  rushed  at  him,  and,  after  breaking  the 

48 


TITO 

fellow's  arm  with  a  blow,  had  lifted  him  bodily  into 
the  air  and  dashed  him  to  the  ground. 

Rising  hastily  he  strode  toward  the  men  who 
had  been  discussing  the  affairs  of  the  bank.  They 
were  old  friends  whom  he  had  known  for  many 
years. 

"Thank  you  for  your  confidence  in  me,"  he 
said  in  a  calm  tone,  holding  out  his  hand.  "I  was 
sitting  near  and  could  not  help  overhearing." 

They  shook  his  hand  warmly  and,  without  an 
other  word,  he  went  out. 

He  did  not  follow  his  first  impulse  and  go  home 
to  demand  of  his  father  why  he  had  put  this  dis 
grace  upon  him.  Turning  up  the  avenue  he 
entered  the  Park.  Heedless  of  direction,  at  times 
going  in  a  circle,  he  walked  on  and  on,  finding 
himself  first  on  the  east  side,  then  on  the  west  side 
of  the  Park,  only  to  retrace  his  steps  and  plunge 
into  the  darkest  recesses. 

But  the  hours  of  walking  had  accomplished  his 
purpose,  and  when  he  returned  home  he  was  out 
wardly  calm.  No  human  being  could  do  more 
than  conjecture  what  were  his  feelings.  The  same 
inscrutable  look,  the  same  shadow  of  a  smile,  and 
a  manner  that  betrayed  neither  anger  nor  resent 
ment. 

Father  and  son  possessed  many  characteristics 
in  common,  but  in  many  ways  they  were  as  unlike 
as  it  is  possible  for  those  of  the  same  blood  to  be. 
The  father's  pride,  verging  on  haughty  arrogance, 
blinded  his  sense  of  justice.  The  son  was  imbued 
with  a  spirit  of  fairness,  a  superior  intellect,  and  a 

49 


TITO 

calmness  of  judgment  and  manner  that  might  be 
mistaken  for  indifference. 

As  they  stood  facing  each  other,  the  advantage 
was  entirely  with  the  younger  man.  Their  eyes 
met,  but  if  either  were  laboring  under  excitement 
or  apprehension,  he  did  not  betray  it. 

"Well?"  It  was  the  elder  Vanburg  who  first 
spoke. 

"Is  it  true,  sir,  as  I  have  been  informed,  that 
during  my  absence  my  accounts  have  been  exam 
ined  by  an  expert?" 

For  an  instant  a  faint  color  mounted  to  the  old 
man's  cheeks,  but  died  as  quickly. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  without  removing  his  glance 
from  the  face  of  his  son. 

"Why?" 

"I  had  reason  to  believe,  or  to  expect,  that  your 
accounts  were  incorrect." 

"And  you  took  this  means  of  ascertaining  the 
truth,  and  of  publicly  branding  me  with  dis 
honor?" 

Again  the  faint  smile  hovered  about  the  corners 
of  the  speaker's  mouth.  His  tone  was  one  of  calm 
courtesy,  his  eyes  leveled  at  the  face  before  him. 

"There  was  no  further  publicity  than  was  nec 
essary.  I  desired  to  learn  the  exact  condition  of 
your  books." 

"And  you  did  learn?" 

"Not  to  my  entire  satisfaction." 

The  blood  rushed  to  the  young  man's  cheeks, 
followed  by  an  ashen  pallor.  His  voice  was  un 
naturally  low  as  he  answered,  his  words  measured. 

50 


TITO 

"And  you  still  believe  me  to  be  a  defaulter  ?" 

At  the  word  "defaulter"  a  quiver  swept  the  old 
man's  frame,  but  his  voice  was  pitched  in  the  same 
monotone. 

''What  had  I  a  right  to  expect?  A  son  of  mine 
who  would  marry  a  low,  Italian  peasant — 

"Stop!  you  have  dishonored  me  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world.  You  must  rest  satisfied  with  that. 
The  memory  of  her  of  whom  you  speak  is  sacred  to 
me — more  sacred  than  the  name  of  Vanburg.  I 
was  never  worthy  of  her,  I  could  never  hope  to 
be." 

His  tone  and  manner  in  speaking  of  the  wrong 
that  had  been  done  him  were  those  of  sorrowful 
reproach;  but  at  the  reference  to  Bettina,  his  self- 
control  vanished,  and  his  voice,  trembling  with 
passion,  rang  through  the  room.  His  father 
looked  at  the  flushed  face  and,  for  an  instant,  emo 
tions  akin  to  pride  and  love  moved  him;  but  he 
also  recognized  in  the  flashing  eyes,  the  com 
pressed  lips,  the  spirit  of  the  mother  whose  name 
he  had  never  mentioned  in  the  presence  of  his  son. 
In  his  voice,  as  he  replied,  there  was  an  added 
sting. 

"You  are  my  son,  yes,  but  you  have  your 
mothers  blood." 

"For  that,"  came  the  reply  with  slow  distinct 
ness,  "I  thank  God.  To-night  my  services  with 
the  bank  terminate.  To-night  I  leave  this  house. 
I  have  one  request  to  make: — when  you  discover 
your  error,  I  ask  you  to  make  it  as  public  as  is 
now  my  disgrace." 


TITO 

For  an  instant  terror  filled  the  eyes  that  fol 
lowed  young  Vanburg  until  the  door  closed  be 
hind  him.  When  he  was  alone  the  father  sank  into 
his  seat,  his  face  ashen  gray,  his  eyes  still  fixed  on 
the  door  through  which  his  son  had  passed.  He 
sat  motionless  until  he  heard  him  descend  the 
stone  steps  to  the  street. 

A  time  had  come  when  he  must  call  upon  his 
pride,  his  arrogance,  to  sustain  him.  With  what 
results?  Lips  that  quivered,  eyes  into  which  the 
tears  would  come,  hands  that  trembled  as  if  with 
palsy,  and  more  than  all  the  conscious,  overwhelm 
ing,  sickening  truth,  that  mocked  him,  taunted 
him, — that  he  had  wronged  his  son.  He  felt  it,  he 
knew  it,  he  had  read  it  in  his  son's  eyes — the  son 
whom  he  had  never  known,  the  son  whom  he  had 
refused  to  know,  to  love.  His  pride!  Was  that 
not  left  to  him?  But  to  what  use,  to  what  pur 
pose?  Had  he  not  called  upon  it  to  rally  to  his 
aid  ?  and  he  had  found  it — what  ?  Something  that 
limped  on  crutches  of  rotten  clay  that  crumbled 
and  lay  at  his  feet — dead  ashes.  Would  his  son 
return?  No.  So  far  he  knew  him.  What  was 
left  to  him?  Nothing  but  the  remnants  of  the 
pride  that  for  a  lifetime  he  had  fostered  and  petted 
and  pampered.  Yes,  he  would  gather  from  the 
wreck  whatever  was  left,  and  it  would  again  take 
on  the  semblance  of  life;  but  it  would  be  a  mis 
shapen  thing,  feeble  and  faltering  and,  like  a 
treacherous  friend,  desert  him  should  it  hear  his 
call  for  aid. 


TITO 

Slowly  the  hours  dragged  on,  and  the  gray  light 
of  dawn  was  a  reminder  that  he  had  not  slept. 

After  leaving  his  home,  Vanburg  went  at  once 
to  a  hotel  on  Fifth  Avenue.  Writing  out  his  res 
ignation  to  his  club,  he  dropped  it  into  a  letter 
box.  From  that  moment  his  world,  for  him,  had 
ceased  to  exist. 


53 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

MOTHER   MALENOTTI    sat    knitting   in 
the    living   room    of   her   home,    situated 
a  few  miles  south  of  Florence  in  the  valley 
of  the  Arno. 

Through  the  open  door,  the  brilliancy  of  an 
Italian  sunset  accentuated  the  emptiness  of  the 
humble  abode  with  distressing  clearness.  The 
house  bore  the  stamp  of  the  peasant's  home,  cheer 
less  and  uninviting,  and  no  touch  of  comfort  per 
vaded  the  scantily  furnished  room  where  she  was 
at  work.  Though  the  house  was  gloomy  within, 
a  glance  over  the  sweep  of  country  from  the 
threshold  of  the  door  was  like  a  glimpse  of  Heaven 
from  the  confines  of  Purgatory.  On  no  canvas 
was  ever  depicted  the  beauty  that  there  unrolled 
before  the  eye.  Gradually  descending,  the  land 
sloped  in  a  succession  of  varied  tints  of  green,  until 
it  terminated  at  the  banks  of  the  river  Arno, — a 
seam  of  silver,  dividing  the  rolling  plain.  Beyond, 
the  fields  stretched  in  undulating  waves  of  color, 
lost  in  the  hazy  clouds  enveloping  the  distant 
Apennines.  The  house,  itself,  stood  some  feet 
from  the  roadway,  raising  its  brick  roof  in  the 
centre  of  the  garden ;  but  the  ugliness  of  its  four 
walls  had  not  the  power  to  mar  the  beauty  of  the 
surrounding  country.  To  the  eye,  everything  was 

54 


TITO 

Italian — the  blue  of  the  sky,  the  green  of  the  foli 
age,  the  flowers,  the  fragrance  of  the  soft  breeze, 
and  that  inimitable  atmosphere  that  can  be  found 
only  in  the  land  of  sculptors,  of  painters,  of  a  peo 
ple  in  whom  artistic  instincts  are  developed  as  in 
no  other  land,  under  no  other  sky — Italy. 

Turning  from  the  threshold  and  the  glory  of  the 
wondrous  sunset,  the  eye,  with  an  effort,  became 
accustomed  to  the  gloom  within  the  house.  As 
the  light,  through  the  open  door,  fell  upon  the 
bent  figure  of  Mother  Malenotti,  even  its  mellow 
glow  could  not  soften  the  lines  of  her  hardened 
features.  Deeper  and  more  forbidding  than  when 
we  last  saw  her  was  the  expression  on  her 
wrinkled  features.  Kindliness  or  sentiment  never 
disturbed  the  fixed  expression  of  savage  resent 
ment  that  flashed  from  her  eyes;  a  smile  seldom 
softened  the  tense,  drawn  lines  about  her  mouth, 
for  time  had  dealt  unkindly  with  her.  Her  back 
was  bent  by  the  accumulation  of  years  and  the 
weight  of  labor ;  her  hair  was  snow  white ;  and  the 
climate  of  America  had  planted  in  her  system  the 
seed  of  rheumatic  ills  which  made  her  life  a  tor 
ment,  imparting  to  her  temper  a  crustiness  that 
banished  the  few  friends  she  had  once  claimed. 
One  by  one  they  had  slipped  out  of  her  life,  until 
she  was  left  alone  with  young  Tito  and  the  mem 
ory  of  her  Bettina.  The  years  had  not  lessened 
her  sorrow  nor  quenched  the  fire  of  her  hate.  In 
deed,  passing  time,  and  increasing  ills,  only  tended 
to  fan  the  flame,  and  from  brooding  upon  her  loss 
had  come  a  belief — fixed,  sincere,  fostered  by  her 

55 


TITO 

mental  and  physical  suffering,  that  Vanburg  had 
been  the  cause  of  all  her  misfortune. 

During  the  month  following  the  death  of  her 
niece,  Mother  Malenotti  had  left  Florence,  not, 
however,  to  return  to  her  own  home.  Her  rela 
tives  and  friends  she  had  shunned,  and,  with  the 
money  realized  from  the  sale  of  the  furnishings  of 
their  home  in  Florence,  she  had  purchased  the 
house  and  bit  of  land  where  we  now  find  her. 
Here,  with  the  child,  Tito,  she  lived  a  life  of  seclu 
sion — making  no  acquaintances  and  repulsing  all 
advances.  With  a  flash  in  her  eyes,  a  look,  and  an 
unspoken  curse  on  her  lips  she  answered  those  in 
whom  the  child  awakened  curiosity.  His  name 
was  Tito — just  Tito.  To  those  unwise  enough  to 
ask  for  further  information,  a  forbidding  silence 
on  her  part  was  the  only  response.  She  was 
known  by  the  name  of  Madame  Rossi;  the  child? 
Madonna!  the  child  is  the  son  of  one  who  is  dead; 
and  now  I  must  slave  for  him  that  he  may  live. 

Of  Pietro  they  saw  but  little.  Three  or  four 
times  yearly,  on  a  holiday,  he  came  to  the  cottage 
and  remained  a  day  or  two,  leaving  them  as  he 
had  come,  sullen  and  silent.  At  first  he  regarded 
the  boy  with  an  indifference  amounting  to  dislike, 
for,  though  he  was  Bettina's  child,  his  hate  for  the 
father  was  keenly  alive.  But  as  Tito  grew,  and 
the  years  added  to  his  beauty,  he  would  hold  the 
boy  before  him  at  arm's  length,  and,  in  the  startled 
eyes,  fair  features,  and  quivering  lips — for  Tito 
feared  him, — he  could  see  the  face  of  the  dead 
Bettina.  Then,  for  hours,  he  would  watch  the 

56 


TITO 

boy.  and  a  savage  love  took  possession  of  him, — 
a  love  that,  as  time  passed,  amounted  to  idolatry. 
But  no  responsive  chord  was  touched  in  the  child's 
heart,  for  his  instinct  rebelled,  and  he  received  the 
presents  with  which  Pietro  sought  to  win  his  favor 
with  suspicion,  mingled  with  disdain,  and  when 
the  old  man  had  departed  he  would  throw  them 
from  him. 

Pietro  listened  to  the  old  woman  with  demoniac 
glee  while  she  related  to  him  the  child's  vows  of 
vengeance,  and  the  hate  for  his  father  which  she 
had  instilled  into  the  boy's  heart. 

"Ah,  but  I  may  trust  thee,"  was  Pietro's  reply, 
"thou  couldst  outwit  the  devil.  But  should  the 
boy  fail—" 

"He  will  not,"  was  her  reply. 

"But  should  he—" 

Their  eyes  met.  The  old  man's  head  shook  as 
if  with  ague.  They  said  nothing  further,  but  they 
understood. 

The  boy  grew  and  beauty  set  upon  him  as  by 
right.  He  gave  promise  of  marvelous  things,  for, 
though  his  mind  was  steeped  with  the  venom  of 
the  old  woman's  hate,  his  body  was  well  nourished 
with  the  best  of  peasant  fare,  and  even  luxuries 
that  his  foster-mother  scorned.  When  his  baby 
prattle  became  intelligible,  and  he  could  lisp  the 
first  few  words,  a  fierce  joy  shone  in  the  old 
woman's  face,  but  her  laugh  chilled  the  blood. 
Even  the  child  looked  with  fearful,  wondering  eyes 
at  the  features  distorted  by  ghoulish  mirth — fea 
tures  that  betrayed  no  other  human  emotion 

57 


TITO 

than  the  hate  that  grew  with  her  increasing 
years. 

She  could  see  in  the  boy's  eyes  the  dreaminess, 
the  exquisite  gentleness  of  the  child  Bettina;  but 
she  cursed  the  fair  skin  and  the  sturdy  robustness 
that  spoke  of  other  than  Italian  blood.  Tito 
seemed  to  absorb  from  her  the  fierce  vindictive- 
ness  that  dominated  her  being,  and  he  often 
yielded  to  uncontrollable  bursts  of  passion.  He 
would  lisp  curses  with  the  soft  Italian  inflection,  in 
a  tone  that,  in  a  child,  is  nearest  to  spoken  music. 
For  an  evening  prayer,  he  would  follow  the  old 
woman,  word  for  word,  as  she  breathed  into  his 
ears  oaths  and  imprecations  upon  his  father, — he 
who  had  been  ashamed  to  acknowledge  the  wife 
that  had  borne  him  a  child.  The  wondering  eyes 
of  the  boy  sought  those  that  shot  gleams  of  hate, 
as,  in  his  childish  treble,  he  called  upon  the  saints 
to  preserve  him  until,  with  his  own  hand,  he  could 
avenge  his  wrong. 

"Say  it  again,  my  Tito,  say  it  again !"  she  would 
shriek,  and  the  child  would  again  lisp  the  curses 
that  at  first  fell  from  his  lips  in  unmeaning,  child 
ish  monotones,  but  that  grew  with  his  understand 
ing,  fierce  and  passionate. 

She  carefully  hid  from  him  all  knowledge  of  the 
world.  He  was  forbidden  books,  for  she  looked 
upon  schools  as  the  breeding  places  of  discontent. 

"He  shall  become  a  true  son  of  Italy,"  the  old 
woman  declared.  "He  shall  be  a  son  of  the  soil — 
a  true  peasant.  He  will  then  feel  the  blood  in  his 
veins,  and  some  day  he  will  awake  to  the  power 

58 


TITO 

within  him.  His  mind?  bah!  that  is  for  me!  he 
shall  think  as  I  think;  he  shall  feel  what  I  feel — 
the  hate,  and  the  joy  of  knowing  that  he  can 
avenge  himself — and  me." 

When  Tito  was  eight  years  old  the  parroco  of 
the  village  came  with  offers  of  good  advice. 
Mother  Malenotti  met  him  with  eyes  that  flashed 
a  warning.  "It  is  time,"  the  good  man  said,  "that 
young  Tito  prepared  for  his  first  communion. 
Must  not  the  soul  be  nourished  as  well  as  the 
body?  He  must  learn  the  story  of  the  Cristo. 
Madame  Rossi,  you  do  not  come  to  mass.  What 
think  you  of  your  example  for  the  boy?" 

The  good  man's  show  of  solicitude  was  cut 
short  by  a  flood  of  abuse  that  sent  him  shuddering 
from  the  house.  The  child  laughed  and  clapped 
his  hands  with  delight. 

But  the  beauty  of  nature  was  at  work  upon  his 
susceptible  rnind,  and  the  fields  and  the  flowers 
spoke  a  language  that  appealed  to  the  finer  in 
stincts  within  him.  He  was  much  alone,  wander 
ing  through  the  fields  and  the  woods.  He  appre 
ciated  nature's  picture  of  the  beautiful.  The  birds 
spoke  to  him  words  which  he  understood,  which 
aroused  emotions  that  thrilled  him.  The  patter  of 
the  raindrops  seemed  voices  of  another  world ;  and 
the  brooks  and  the  streams,  as  they  joined  the 
Arno  on  its  way  to  the  sea,  bore  his  childish  con 
fidences.  He  could  not  understand  the  feelings 
that  moved  him  when  alone,  and  he  confided  in 
but  one.  his  only  companion  and  play-fellow,  little 
Maria;  for  boys  of  his  age  shunned  him. 

59 


TITO 

She,  a  child  of  Tito's  age,  would  have  been 
homeless  but  for  the  charity  of  relatives.  She  had 
been  his  one  companion  since  he  could  remember. 
They  had  shared  their  sorrows,  and  whatever  joys 
they  had  ever  known;  and  it  was  Maria,  who, 
against  all  the  world,  had  championed  the  cause  of 
her  boy  lover.  But  her  trust  in  Tito  brought 
upon  her  the  enmity  of  every  child  in  the  country 
round,  even  the  wrath  of  those  who  daily  re 
minded  her  that  she  was  a  charge  upon  their 
bounty,  for  the  boy  was  regarded  with  disfavor; 
but  threats  were  of  no  avail,  and  her  voice  was 
always  raised  in  his  defence. 

They  roamed  through  the  woods,  the  fields, 
leaping  over  wall  and  hedge,  wading  through  the 
brooks,  tearing  through  underbrush,  like  two  wild 
fawns,  appearing  suddenly  to  the  peasants  in  the 
fields — untamed  children  of  nature. 

But  as  Tito  grew  and  his  plan  for  seeking  his 
father  took  definite  form,  Maria,  with  startled 
eyes,  the  color  coming  and  going  under  the  light, 
hazel  nutbrown  of  her  velvety  cheeks,  listened 
with  bated  breath  and  trembling  fear  to  her  com 
panion's  vow  of  vengeance.  Tearfully  she  pleaded 
with  him,  for  the  horror  of  his  vow  terrified  her; 
but  the  boy  put  her  gently  aside,  telling  her,  ten 
derly,  that  she  could  not  understand.  Noting  her 
distress,  realizing  that  she  could  not  enter  into  his 
purpose — a  purpose  that,  to  him,  was  but  the  pur 
suit  of  justice, — he  ceased  to  discuss  with  her  what 
caused  her  evident  pain,  and,  when  together,  they 
surrendered  themselves  to  the  joy  of  living,  happy 

60 


TITO 

with  the  birds  and  the  flowers,  and  the  love  prom 
ises  which  they  daily  made. 

Music  became  a  passion  with  him,  and  at  times 
he  would — unconsciously — lift  his  voice  in  songs 
he  learned  from  the  peasants  at  work  in  the  fields. 
His  voice,  strong  and  unerringly  true,  rose  in  a 
high  treble  that  rang  on  the  stillness  with  pathetic 
tenderness  and  beauty ;  but  it  served  to  bring  upon 
him  the  wrath  of  Mother  Malenotti.  It  reminded 
her  of  another  voice  that  she  had  loved  and,  in 
breathless  wonder,  young  Tito  listened  to  the 
storm  of  passion  which  his  simple  song  aroused. 
He  did  not  sympathize  with  the  old  woman  in  her 
desire  for  revenge.  Gazing  fixedly  at  her,  his 
coiestioning  eyes  told  that  the  good  within  him 
rebelled.  But  her  irascibility  left  its  imprint  upon 
his  sensitive  nature  and,  as  his  passion  was  al 
lowed  free  rein,  the  intensity  of  her  fierce  vindic- 
tiveness  sank  into  his  soul. 

As  Tito  grew  his  fair  beauty  brought  upon  him 
the  envy  and  the  wrath  of  those  of  his  age.  They 
heaped  upon  him  insults  that  stung  him  into  a 
rage.  Taunting  him  with  a  stain  upon  his  birth, 
they  called  him  "Little  Bastard,"  to  see  the  fire  in 
his  eyes,  and  to  hear  him  give  way  to  a  whirlwind 
of  invectives.  Tingling  with  shame  and  humilia 
tion,  he  would  demand  of  the  old  woman  if  it  were 
true  that  he  was  fatherless,  nameless.  For  answer, 
she  would  shriek  with  delight:  "Beat  them,  my 
Tito,  beat  them !  Art  thou  not  strong?  Do  I  not 
feed  thee  with  the  best?  Listen !"  And  she  would 
relate  tales  of  her  countrymen,  tales  of  hate,  of 

61 


TITO 

revenge,  of  conquest,  until  the  child's  eyes  would 
dilate  with  excitement,  his  cheeks  flush  at  the 
thought  of  the  shame  he  must  avenge. 

Fierce  and  prompt  was  the  punishment  of  his 
defamers.  Bloody  was  the  outcome  of  his  en 
counters  and,  as  he  presented  himself  to  the  old 
woman  with  blood-stained  face  and  hands,  he  tin 
gled  with  the  joy  that  conquerors  feel.  His  re 
ward  was  the  old  woman's  cry  of  joy,  soldi  to 
squander  as  he  would,  and  the  assurance  that 
when  he  had  avenged  his  mother's  wrong,  wealth, 
untold  wealth,  awaited  them. 

"But  my  father?"  young  Tito  demanded,  "you 
have  not  told  me  of  my  father." 

Clutching  the  boy  by  the  arm  till  he  writhed 
with  pain,  she  gave  way  to  shrill,  terrible  laughter. 

"Thou  shalt  know  him,aye,thou  shalt  know  him 
—when  the  time  comes.  When  thou  art  strong, 
my  Tito,  and  can  strike,  even  to  his  heart — then 
shalt  thou  know  his  name.  He  is  great — do  you 
hear?  and  rich!  But  he  hated  me!  and  I  hated 
him — and  it  has  grown  and  grown  and  grown !" 

It  was  the  twenty-fourth  day  of  June,  the  feast 
of  St.  John  the  Baptist.  Tito  was  then  nine  years 
of  age,  strong,  well  developed,  with  the  form,  the 
features  and  the  carriage  of  a  young  god.  He  had 
thrashed  those  of  his  age,  and  those  who  were 
years  older,  into  a.  state  of  subjection  that  breeds 
respect.  He  walked  proudly  erect,  and  was  al 
lowed  the  freedom  of  action  and  of  speech  that  a 
strong  arm  and  unquestioned  courage  commands. 
He  knew  nothing  of  God,  he  feared  not  man.  and 

62 


TITO 

he  calmly  viewed  the  procession  of  children  as 
they  marched  through  the  village  to  the  church,— 
the  only  feeling  awakened  within  him  being  a 
large  contempt.  After  mass  the  parroco  accosted 
him  before  the  church  door. 

"Well,  little  heretic,  hast  thou  yet  learned  to 
fear  God?'' 

"No,"  came  the  prompt  reply,  "nor  thee." 

"Demonictto!  is  it  this  that  thou  hast  been 
taught?" 

lie  shook  the  cane  that  he  carried  in  his  hand 
at  Tito,  who  unflinchingly  stood  his  ground. 

"If  thou  strikest  me,"  said  the  child  calmly, 
though  his  eyes  blazed,  "when  I  am  older  I  will 
beat  thee." 

"Fiaf*  cried  the  enraged  priest,  "thou  art  a 
child  of  the  devil!" 

"If  I  am  a  child  of  the  devil,  thou  art  a  swine," 
answered  the  intrepid  Tito.  "Thou  art  fat  and 
greasy,  aye,  and  lazy — even  like  a  pig.  I  am  not 
afraid  of  thy  stick." 

The  good  man  went  his  way  with  a  muttered 
malediction  upon  the  unheeding  Tito,  who  smiled 
sweetly,  conscious  that  he  had  routed  the  enemy; 
and,  with  head  high,  he  strode  through  the  village 
in  proud  disdain  born  of  his  late  conquest.  But 
here  more  of  the  enemy  were  in  waiting. 

"Well,  Piccolo  d'Ignoti,  with  thy  English  blood 
and  angel  face,  thou  dost  not  come  to  the  church ! 
neither  dost  thou  know  thy  own  father.  Thou  art 
of  the  dirty  American*.  Go  to  America,  thou  lit- 

63 


TITO 

tie  whelp,  with  thy  girl  face.  Thou  art  not  of 
Italia." 

This  was  not  to  go  unchallenged,  and  when  his 
strength  was  exhausted, — for  the  odds  were  three 
to  one  against  him — young  Tito,  with  blood  dis 
figured  face,  appeared  before  Mother  Malenotti. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  "am  I  an  Americano?  Who 
is  this  father  that  I  have  never  seen?  Tell  me  of 
him,  for  I  will  know.  Nay,"  he  cried  between  his 
sobs,  as  the  old  woman  endeavored  to  turn  him 
away  unsatisfied,  "I  will  know!  If  thou  dost  not 
tell  me  I  will  run  away.  Dost  thou  hear?  I  will 
go  to  the  sea,  and  I  shall  go  in  a  ship,"  and  he 
called  to  his  aid  such  a  stream  of  oaths,  that  the 
old  woman  shrieked  with  delight. 

"Ah!  my  Tito,  thou  art  now  my  son,  my  own 
Tito.  Yes,  I  will  tell  thee,  truly  I  will  tell  thee. 
And  thou  shalt  go  to  America,  my  own  Tito,  when 
thou  art  older  and  stronger.  Then  shalt  thou 
know  thy  father — the  father  that  deserted  thee, 
the  father  that  ruined  my  life  and  stole  my  beloved 
Be—" 

She  stopped  suddenly,  overcome  by  her  wrath, 
checked  by  her  desire  to  guard  the  secret  of  his 
parentage.  Her  eyes  glowed  with  tigerish  long 
ing  for  revenge,  and  she  beat  her  hands  upon 
the  table  as  she  leaned  towards  the  boy. 

"Thou  shalt  know,  my  Tito,"  she  continued, 
"but  not  now,  not  now.  It  is  not  yet  time.  And 
thou  wilt  keep  thy  vow?" 

The  eyes  of  the  child  flashed.  "Have  I  not  to 
day  for  the  hundredth  time  been  told  I  have  no 

64 


I   SWEAR   NOT  BY  THAT  !  " 


TITO 

father?  I  know  only  shame!  See!"  he  cried, 
wiping  off  the  blood  that  still  disfigured  his  face, 
"is  he  not  the  cause  of  this?" 

"Aye!"  hissed  the  old  woman.  "It  flows  from 
thy  face.  That  will  heal.  Mine  is  the  heart's  blood 
that  has  flowed  these  years,  these  years." 

Snatching  a  crucifix  from  the  mantel,  she  held 
it  before  him. 

"Swear,"  she  cried,  holding  it  out  to  him, 
"swear  that  thou  wilt  never  receive  the  sacrament 
until  thou  hast  avenged  thy  mother,  till,  with  thy 
father's  life  thou  hast  wiped  out  thy  disgrace. 
Swear  it,  my  Tito !" 

"I  swear,"  cried  the  child,  "but — "  grasping  the 
crucifix  and  dashing  it  against  the  brick  wall  of  the 
fireplace, — "I  swear  not  by  that!  What  has  it 
done  for  me?  Has  it  given  me  a  father?  No! 
Who  am  I?  What  am  I?  Angioletto!  Piccolo 
d'Ignoti.  Do  I  go  through  the  village,  what  do  I 
hear?  Why  do  they  call  me  these  names?  Thou 
dost  not  tell  me  who  I  am, — who  my  father  is. 
Thou  tellest  me  wait,  and  wait,  always  wait,  and 
that  is  all.  I  am  tired  of  waiting — and  of  fighting ; 
but  I  must  fight  when  they  say  these  things  to  me. 
1  shall  go  and  seek  this  father,  dost  thou  hear,  old 
woman  ?  I  shall  go !  And  I  shall  ask  him  if  he  has 
a  better  name  to  give  me  than  Angioletto!  d'Ignoti. 
And  if  he  be  dull,  even  old,  I  will  prick  him  with 
the  point  of  my  knife — to  enliven  his  wits.  And 
I  shall  see  if  his  blood  is  redder  than  mine  and  if 
it  can  flow  as  freely.  And  I  shall  hear  him  cry  out 

65 


TITO 

— for  he  is  a  coward !     Dost  thou  understand  me, 
old  woman  ?    A  coward,  a  coward,  a  coward !" 

What  young  Tito  had  failed  to  learn  from  books 
he  seemed  to  have  acquired  intuitively.  Without 
being  aware  of  how  the  knowledge  had  come  to 
him  he  could,  in  a  laborious  manner,  read  and 
write;  but  Mother  Malenotti  frowned  upon  his 
efforts.  Absorbing  knowledge  of  good  or  evil 
without  apparent  effort,  his  young  mind  sought 
the  food  that  it  craved,  and  an  opportunity  for 
good  being  denied,  he  grasped  that  which  was 
within  reach.  But  the  bent  of  his  intellect  found 
nothing  to  satisfy  its  cravings.  It  was  balked, 
starved,  and  unconsciously  fretted  under  enforced 
restraint.  He  despised  the  feelings  of  hate  and  of 
revenge  with  which  his  nature  became  imbued,  but 
a  living  example  was  ever  before  him,  and  he  came 
to  believe  that  revenge  was  the  one  ambition  that 
should  be  satisfied.  Love  within  him,  except  his 
love  of  nature,  and  his  boyish  passion  for  Maria, 
was  still  unborn.  He  had  never  sufficiently  con 
sidered  the  old  woman  to  analyze  his  feelings  to 
ward  her ;  yet  he  disliked  her — she  filled  him  with 
a  feeling  of  savage  resentment.  Since  he  could  re 
member,  never  had  an  affectionate  word  passed 
between  them;  no  gentle  touch  had  soothed  his 
childish  passions  and  troubles,  though  in  her  own 
way  she  was  kind  to  him;  but  her  kindness  took 
the  form  of  well  prepared  food  that  would  nourish 
the  body.  She  would  have  him  strong,  vigorous, 
and  she  fed  him  as  they  feed  cattle  that  are  being 
fattened  for  the  market. 

66 


TITO 

With  a  child's  quick  perception  he  divined  the 
old  woman's  intentions,  and  he  regarded  her  with 
shuddering  distrust  and  awe.  But  he  had  out 
grown  his  fear,  and  now  as  she  looked  at  him, 
her  eyes  gloating  with  joy,  she  roused  him  to  a 
frenzy.  He  saw  the  gleam  of  the  eyes,  cold,  cal 
culating,  her  bent  and  decrepit  figure  in  the  un 
certain  light  of  early  evening.  He  rushed  from 
the  house,  followed  by  the  old  woman's  inhuman 
laughter. 

She  picked  up  the  broken  crucifix  and,  kissing 
the  cross,  laid  it  on  the  mantel. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  years  went  by,  bringing  to  Mother  Mal- 
enotti  increasing  ills  and  aches.  Her  mind 
was  failing,  and  she  talked  incoherently  of 
her  life  in  America.  She  guarded  her  secret  with 
the  cunning  of  the  weak-minded,  and  though  the 
boy  listened,  hoping  to  learn  from  her  the  story  of 
his  birth,  he  was  forced  to  be  content  with  dis 
jointed  sentences,  and  vague  allusions  to  her 
former  home.  But  what  he  did  hear  whetted  his 
curiosity,  and  he  listened  patiently  to  her  child 
like  babble.  Young  as  he  was,  he  understood  that 
her  mental  condition  foreshadowed  the  end.  Her 
step  was  feeble  and  her  voice  weak,  but  her  fail 
ing  health  seemed,  if  possible,  to  enliven  her  desire 
for  revenge,  and  her  hate  grew  in  proportion  as 
her  strength  failed.  Fixing  her  eyes  on  the  boy 
she  would  gaze  at  him  with  a  gleam  of  longing 
tenderness.  "Yes."  she  would  mutter,  "he  has 
her  eyes,  her  voice,  but,  Diavolo!"  she  would 
shriek,  "Little  Devil,  go  away,  go  awav,  you  have 
your  father's  fair  skin,  yes,  and  his  head!  And 
like  thine,  his  eyes,  when  it  pleased  him  to  look  at 
me,  cut  like  a  knife.  But  he  seldom  took  the 
trouble  to  see  me.  Dost  thou  hear?  To  him,  I 
was  a  thing — a  creature!" 

Pausing,  she  would  look  long  and  fixedly  at  the 
68 


TITO 

boy.  "Turn  thy  head  to  one  side,  Tito,  so, — Madre 
de  Dio!  It  is  his  face.  Yes,  yes,  the  same  proud, 
insolent  curve  of  the  head.  Go  away !"  she  would 
cry;  then  relapse  into  her  customary  drone  and, 
rocking  to  and  fro,  bewail  her  ill-luck  and  her  de 
clining  strength. 

All  one  early  Spring  day  Tito  listened  to  the  old 
woman's  lamentations.  At  times  she  seemed  to 
be  in  full  possession  of  her  faculties ;  her  mind  was 
clear,  and  she  talked  understandingly.  But  she 
was  alert,  on  her  guard,  and  refused  to  discuss 
what  was  uppermost  in  the  child's  thoughts.  Un 
conscious  of  her  physical  and  mental  decline,  she 
postponed  the  day  when  she  would  enlighten  the 
boy  as  to  his  birth — his  father.  No  threats,  no 
entreaties  on  his  part,  had  power  to  move  her — 
he  should  know  when  the  time  came.  Then,  only 
then. 

They  were  sitting  before  the  door  of  the  cottage. 
It  was  early  evening  and  the  breeze  had  set  the 
leaves  chattering.  Tito  was  listening  to  the  old 
woman's  garrulous  ravings.  She  had  spent  a 
good  day,  and  talked  of  his  future,  and  though  she 
held  rein  on  her  tongue,  she  spoke  more  freely 
than  was  her  custom.  Occasionally  her  mind 
wandered,  and,  for  minutes  at  a  time,  she  would 
lapse  into  meaningless  gabble;  then,  as  one  starts 
from  a  light  sleep,  she  would  become  conscious 
that  her  tongue  was  not  under  her  control,  and 
would  furtively  glance  at  the  boy,  lying  on  the 
grass  at  her  feet,  his  eyes  seeking  the  new  coming 
stars,  his  quick  ear  drinking  in  every  word  that  fell 

69 


TITO 

from  her  lips.  There  had  been  a  pause.  She  was 
lost  in  the  confused  memory  of  receding  years. 
She  spoke — her  mind  again  that  of  a  child. 

"And  we  were  so  happy — we  two,  alone.  In  all 
the  world  there  was  not  such  happiness.  I 
worked,  aye,  I  slaved,  that  she  might  paint  the 
pictures.  But  no  one  could  draw  the  Virgine 
and  the  Child  like  my  B — ,  like  her.  And  she 
would  sit  in  the  galleries  in  dear  Firenza  through 
days  and  weeks,  while  I  worked  in  the  fields  for 
the  bits  of  cloth  and  the  brushes.  And  with  them, 
and  the  drop  of  oil,  would  she  fashion  the  head  of 
the  Cristo.  Madonna!  What  art  was  hers!  It 
was  life  to  her — it  was  all.  Then  he  came.  Ha, 
ha,  ha,  but  he  shall  pay  for  it.  Aye,  he  shall  pay 
— with  his  blood." 

There  followed  mutterings,  supplications  to  the 
saints  to  witness  her  vows  of  vengeance.  Sud 
denly  she  turned  to  the  boy  who  was  silently  stor 
ing  in  his  memory  every  word  she  uttered. 

"What  hast  thbu  heard,  Tito?  Of  what  have  I 
talked?  Ah!  but  thou  shalt  know,  aye,  in  good 
time,  in  good  time." 

Tito  did  not  reply.  There  was  a  dreamy  ex 
pression  in  the  eyes  he  turned  to  the  stars,  to  read 
there  what  was  denied  him ;  but  he  was  deaf  to  the 
voices  of  the  night  which  were  beginning  to  dis 
turb  the  soothing  quiet,  for  his  ear  was  tuned  to 
the  old  woman's  voice  that  again  broke  the  still 
ness. 

"The  silver  and  the  bric-a-brac, — a  prince's  ran- 

70 


TITO 

som!     That  was  mine,  all  mine.     And  he  doesn't 
know  the  boy  lives." 

Her  cackling-  laugh  was  like  the  echo  of  the  cry 
of  the  damned.  It  seemed  to  rouse  her. 

''Tito,  stand  here  where  I  may  look  at  thee." 

The  boy  rose  and  stood  before  her.  Her  eyes, 
like  smouldering  coals,  gleamed  through  the  dusk 
of  the  evening,  and  she  nodded  her  head  approv 
ingly.  "Yes,  them  hast  grown,  for  well  have  I  nour 
ished  thee.  It  is  almost  time  that  thou  shouldst 
know — and  thou  shalt.  Thou  wilt  not  forget  thy 
vow?  Remember  what  they  call  thee — 'Piccolo 
d'Ignoti!'  Does  it  not  stir  the  blood  in  thy  veins? 
Let  me  feel  thy  arm.  Aye,  it  is  hard.  That  is 
good.  Thou  canst  strike,  aye,  and  well,  for  have  I 
not  seen  that  scullion,  Tammaso,  when  thou  hast 
pummelled  him?  And  the  grass  withered  where 
his  dirty  blood  spilled  upon  it.  Thou  didst  well, 
my  Tito,  aye,  well." 

"Was  my  father  fair  like — like  me?"  he  asked, 
then  caught  his  breath  sharply.  His  question 
roused  the  passion  within  her,  and  her  words  re 
solved  into  a  stream  of  invectives. 

"Listen,  old  woman,"  the  boy  cried,  "thou  wilt 
delay  too  long.  If  thou  dost  not  tell  me  soon,  I 
shall  go  to  Firenza.  There,  I  shall  sing,  for  I  can, 
— the  good  doctor  in  the  village  tells  me  I  sing 
well.  And  I  shall  stand  in  the  public  squares  and 
sinsr,  and  they  will  give  me  money.  Then  shall  I 
go  to  America.  Sicuramenti!  And  I  shall  find 
this  coward  father.  And  thou  shalt  know  naught. 
That  will  not  please  thee,  old  woman." 

71 


TITO 

"Thou  must  not  leave  me,"  she  shrieked,  "I, 
too,  must  go.  I  must  see  him  when  his  own  son 
has  struck  him,  even  to  the  heart.  And  I  shall 
mock  him,  and  ask  him  why  he  stole  her  from  me. 
Thou  wilt  not  deny  me  that,  my  Tito?  It  is  for 
that  I  have  lived.  Thou  wilt  not !"  she  cried. 

She  clutched  his  arm  and  tried  to  rise.  The 
pale  moonlight  gave  to  her  features  an  unearthly, 
clay-white  color.  For  a  moment  her  passion  gave 
her  strength,  then,  with  a  moan,  she  sank  into  a 
chair.  The  boy  looked  at  her  in  affright. 

"Come,"  he  said  gently,  "come  within.  Thou 
shalt  rest,  and  then  shalt  thou  tell  me  what  I  would 
know." 

"Thou  wilt  not  leave  me,  my  Tito?"  she  wailed. 

Without  replying  he  helped  the  old  woman  into 
the  house,  and  though  he  endeavored,  by  gentle 
questioning,  to  induce  her  to  talk,  he  met  with 
little  success. 

The  morning  sun  streaming  through  the  win 
dow  awakened  Tito.  He  arose  and  descended  to 
the  living  room.  All  was  quiet.  He  looked  into 
the  chamber  occupied  by  Mother  Malenotti. 
One  look  at  the  body  on  the  bed  was  sufficient — 
the  old  woman  had  been  dead  for  hours.  No 
living  being  near  her,  in  the  quiet  of  the  night 
she  had  died — her  last  cry  one  of  vengeance.  Tito 
stood  beside  the  bed.  No  feeling  of  compassion 
or  sorrow  moved  him  as  he  gazed  on  the 
wrinkled  features.  Death  had  deepened  the  lines 
in  her  face,  until  its  expression  was  unnatural,  in 
human.  The  boy  looked  long  and  intently,  but 

72 


TITO 

with  dry  eyes,  and  a  feeling  only  of  regret  that  she 
carried  with  her  the  secret  of  his  birth.  His  heart 
suggested  no  prayer ;  he  thought  not  of  God  or  of 
the  hereafter  into  which  her  soul  had  been 
plunged,  without  warning,  to  meet  her  Maker. 
No  time  for  repentance,  no  word  or  touch  to  ease 
her  going,  she  had  left  her  long  life  of  hate, — her 
last  thought,  her  last  cry,  one  of  revenge; — her 
only  legacy  to  the  child,  her  all-consuming  hate 
for  the  father  whose  life  the  boy  had  sworn  should 
wipe  out  the  dishonor  of  his  own  birth. 

Pietro,  a  week  after  the  funeral,  had  returned  to 
the  fields,  and  young  Tito  sat  alone  before  the 
house.  For  the  past  few  days  he  had  wandered 
aimlessly  about  through  the  fields  and  the  woods, 
thinking  much,  for  he  realized  the  time  had  come 
when  he  should  go  into  the  world  and  make  his 
own  way  alone,  unaided.  What  was  this  world 
like?  America  was  far  away,  yet  he  would  go, 
for  was  it  not  there  his  father  lived?  Yes,  he 
would  go,  and  soon.  He  looked  about  him  with  a 
feeling  of  regret,  for  he  would  miss  the  flowers  and 
the  fields  and  the  blue  sky.  Where  was  this  city, 
— this  New  York?  He  would  demand  of  the 
parroco,  who  should  know.  Within  the  hour  he 
presented  himself  before  the  priest. 

"Well,  Little  Devil,  hast  thou  come  at  last  to 
confess  thy  sins?" 

"No,"  answered  Tito,  "when  I  have  done  that 
for  which  I  am  sorry,  I  will  ask  thee  to  absolve  me. 
What  I  would  know  is  where  is  this  city  of  New 
York  ?  How  shall  I  go  there  ?" 

73 


TITO 

The  priest  laughed  shrilly. 

"What,  little  heretic,  canst  them  do  in  America? 
Thou  canst  neither  read  nor  write." 

"That  is  for  me  to  decide,"  answered  the  boy 
stoutly.  "What  I  would  have  thee  tell  me,  is  how 
I  may  get  there.  Shall  I  go  to  Genoa?  There 
are  many  ships  there." 

"Thinkest  thou,  boy,  it  would  not  be  well  to 
make  thy  peace  with  God  ere  thou  go  on  this  jour 
ney?  What  know  you  of  Heaven?" 

The  eyes  that  met  the  reproving  glance  of  the 
priest  did  not  waver. 

"What  has  Heaven  done  for  me?"  demanded 
the  boy.  "Hast  thou  not  called  me  'Little  Devil?' 
Hast  this  Heaven  given  me  a  father?  Save  thy 
word  of  advice  for  those  who  seek  it.  Good 
Father,  thine  is  a  trade  that  flourishes  best  when 
the  crops  fail.  Did  ever  a  man  come  to  thee 
with  a  full  stomach?  Heaven  is  for  those  who 
need  help;  'I  only  ask  the  way  to  America.  If 
thou  dost  not  tell  me,  I  shall  know  that  what  the 
village  doctor  says  of  thee  is  true." 

"What  has  he  said,  Little  Devil  ?" 

"That  thou  hast  the  wit  of  an  ass.  Also  his 
voice.  Tell  me  how  I  shall  go  to  America  ? 

"The  road  thou  art  now  travelling  will  lead  thee 
to  thy  master,  the  Devil." 

"Now,  I  believe  the  good  doctor.  I  will  go  to 
him.  Good  bye,  Parroco,  we  shall  not  meet  again 
— unless  you  be  sweeping  the  street  crossing,  and 
I  pass  that  way." 

"Well,"  said  the  doctor  kindly,  as  Tito,  hat  in 
74 


TITO 

hand,  stood  on  the  threshold  of  his  office,  "what 
now?  You  have  not  been  indulging  in  your  cus 
tomary  pastime?" 

"I  have  not  fought,"  the  boy  answered,  a  tinge 
of  regret  in  his  voice,  "for  two  whole  weeks.  But 
it  is  no  fault  of  mine.  They  run  from  me." 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  as  an  artist  might 
regard  his  model — with  admiring  eyes. 

"Tell  me,"  said  the  boy,  "tell  me  how  I  shall  go 
to  America." 

"And  wilt  thou  go?" 

"Yes,  and  soon.  I  have  money  enough  to  take 
me  there.  When  I  reach  America  I  shall  work, 
and  I  shall  find  the  father  whom  I  have  never 
seen." 

The  doctor  smiled.  He  respected  the  boy's 
courage,  for  he  had  seen  it  proven.  To  attempt  to 
turn  him  from  his  purpose  he  knew  would  be  a 
waste  of  time;  so,  while  Tito,  with  flushed  cheeks 
and  glowing  eyes,  listened,  the  good  doctor  told 
him  what  he  would  know.  From  Florence  to 
Genoa — 'twas  but  a  step.  There  he  would  take  a 
steamer  for  New  York,  and  then — 

"Ah!"  sighed  the  boy  with  delight,  "then — 
the  rest  is  easy.  Am  I  not  strong?  Thinkest 
thou  I  cannot  work?  Am  I  afraid?  No!  Fear  is 
not  for  me !" 

For  hours  after  Tito  returned  home,  he  sat  by 
the  open  door,  pondering.  He  laid  the  disjointed 
fragments  of  knowledge  which  had  come  to  him, 
facts  he  had  gathered  from  the  ravings  of  the  old 
woman,  before  him :  and  by  an  ingenuity  that  was 

75 


TITO 

uncommon  in  one  of  his  years — even  remarkable 
in  its  logical  deductions — he  fashioned  them  into 
an  understandable  whole.  Connecting,  bit  by  bit, 
the  information  he  had  accumulated,  which  he  had 
retained  in  his  memory,  he  was  now  in  possession 
of  a  fair  and  concise  outline  of  the  history  of 
Mother  Malenotti's  life  from  the  time  his  father 
had  entered  it.  His  mother,  he  knew,  was  an 
artist.  He  was  satisfied  that  New  York  was  the 
home  of  his  father — and  that  he  was  an  aristocrat. 
The  boy  was  even  familiar  with  the  names  of  cer 
tain  localities  in  the  city,  and  the  old  woman,  in 
unguarded  moments,  had  given  such  details  of 
his  father's  personal  appearance  as  to  furnish  the 
boy  with  a  mental  photograph  of  him,  that  was 
stamped  upon  his  impressionable  mind. 

The  journey  to  America  he  viewed  with  un 
daunted  courage  and  determination,  for  confidence 
had  come  to  him  through  social  isolation  and  the 
necessity  which  forced  him  to  depend  upon  his 
sturdy,  physical  strength.  Ignorance  of  the  world 
was  to  him  at  once  a  curse  and  a  power  that  comes 
from  lack  of  fear,  and  unfamiliarity  with  danger 
and  hardships.  Such  ready  money  as  was  in  the 
possession  of  Mother  Malenotti  at  the  time  of  her 
death,  was  his.  This,  with  what  Pietro  had  given 
him.  was  sufficient  for  his  immediate  needs,  and  to 
pay  his  passage  to  America;  beyond  that,  he  did 
not  give  a  thought  to  the  future.  His  strong  arm 
gave  him  an  arrogant  self-reliance,  and  an  en 
thusiasm  born  of  childish  disregard  of  conse 
quence.  But  he  was  wise  beyond  his  years,  and 

76 


TITO 

old  in  the  philosophy  that  Nature  teaches.  Had 
the  word  of  God  been  instilled  into  his  heart, 
directing  his  young  mind,  he  would  have  been  cap 
able  of  wonderful  things.  He  was  of  the  mould 
that  has  given  to  the  world  great  men — men 
who  have  lived  and  have  died  for  a  principle.  A 
malign  fate  had  willed  to  him  one  thought,  one 
emotion,  one  desire — revenge. 

Entering  the  house,  he  carefully  examined  the 
few  effects  the  old  woman  had  left — two  or  three 
letters,  yellow  with  age  and  worn  by  much  hand 
ling;  cheap  trinkets  of  Italian  make  that  she  had 
preserved  as  mementos  of  her  younger  days;  but 
it  was  a  ring  of  unique  design  that  attracted  the 
boy  and  aroused  his  curiosity.  The  stone  of  the 
ring  had  been  removed,  and  inside  the  slender 
hoop  of  gold  was  the  name — Bettina.  The  letters 
the  boy  burned — not  knowing  their  value.  The 
ring  and  a  small  picture  of  the  Madonna,  in  oil,  a 
few  inches  of  canvas  tacked  on  a  wooden  frame — 
mementos  of  the  home  of  his  childhood — these 
were  all  he  wished  to  retain. 

Two  days  later,  with  a  third-class  ticket  to 
Florence,  he  stood  at  the  station  with  Maria's 
hand  in  his  own.  Their  tears  mingled,  but  they 
were  blind  to  those  who  watched  them  and  smiled. 

The  train  puffed  into  the  station.  There  was  an 
exchange  of  promises,  a  parting  kiss,  and  Tito 
began  his  journey. 


77 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  two  hours'  railroad  journey  from  his  old 
home  to  the  city  of  Florence  gave  Tito  a 
taste  of  the  world  that  he  was  entering. 
After  having  been  jostled  at  the  station,  and 
crowded  in  the  dingy  compartment  of  the  rail 
road  carriage,  he  regarded  the  passengers  with 
looks  which  did  not  invite  intimacy,  and  his  bear 
ing  was  not  calculated  to  enlist  their  sympathies. 
They  wore  the  peasant's  garb  and  were  dirty  and 
unkempt.  Tito  watched  them  first  with  disdain, 
then  with  disgust.  It  is  not  your  feelings  that 
interest  mankind  in  general;  it  is  what  you  are 
unfortunate  enough  not  to  hide  that  concerns  the 
observing.  Tito  did  not  dissemble — the  appear 
ance  of  his  fellow-travelers  did  not  please  him,  he 
had  never  been  trained  to  disguise  his  feelings,  and 
they  could  read  on  his  face  that  he  considered  him 
self  much  too  good  for  the  company  he  was  in. 
Having  regulated  their  social  status  by  eye,  one 
of  his  fellow  travelers,  a  burly  youth  with  a 
wooden  expression  of  countenance,  and  a  bullet- 
shaped  head  on  heavy  shoulders,  addressed  Tito. 
He  was  the  boy's  senior  by  several  years  and  of 
unquestioned  insolence. 

"Where  dost   thou   go,   young  one,   with   thy 
78   " 


TITO 

cherub  face?"  There  was  studied  offence  in  the 
tone. 

"Not  whence  you  came — from  a  piggery/' 
answered  Tito. 

"Thou  hadst  best  cultivate  a  more  civil  tongue," 
retorted  the  other  hotly. 

"1  might  if  you  had  learned  to  respect  your 
betters."  Tito's  tone  was  not  pacific. 

Their  eyes  flashed  their  unspoken  opinions. 
The  other  passengers  lent  approval  and  encour 
agement. 

"Canst  thou  not  read  thy  ticket,  Angiolettof" 
the  stranger  asked,  the  appellation  being  a  chance 
shot.  Tito's  countenance  became  scarlet. 

"Yes,"  he  retorted  angrily,  "as  readily  as  your 
dolt  face.  It  will  be  best  for  your  wooden  head  if 
you  mind  your  own  affairs." 

The  guard  interrupted  this  exchange  of  pleas 
antries.  The  train  was  drawing  into  the  station  at 
Florence. 

It  was  early  evening  and  he  walked  boldly  along 
the  crowded  streets.  Having  eaten  nothing  since 
noontime,  he  was  hungry,  but  though  he  did  not 
appreciate  the  value  of  money,  he  knew  its  pur 
chasing  power.  Approaching  a  fruit  store,  he  in 
stinctively  put  his  hand  into  the  pocket  of  his 
trousers — fruit  cost  money.  He  stopped  suddenly, 
and  a  blank  stare  of  amazement  overspread  his 
features — his  purse  was  gone. 

The  passersby  looked  with  a  show  of  curiosity, 
and  some  little  interest,  at  the  fair-haired  youth 
standing  on  the  sidewalk,  gazing  into  space,  nn- 

79 


TITO 

mindful  of  their  admiring  glances.  The  boy  had 
received  his  first  unkind  jolt  to  remind  him  that 
the  world  guards  those  whose  diligence  never 
slumbers.  He  was  paying  the  penalty  of  ignor 
ance  of  the  ways  of  large  cities.  He  did  not  mourn 
— he  had  yet  to  fully  appreciate  his  position,  with 
out  money,  and  knowing  no  one  in  the  city.  A 
smile  lighted  up  his  face,  and  not  a  few  turned  for 
a  second  time  to  look  at  the  boy,  standing  with 
hands  thrust  into  his  pockets.  Alone,  penniless, 
supperless,  and  hungry — he  was  certain  that  never 
before  had  he  been  quite  so  hungry — yet  he 
laughed  aloud. 

The  streets  were  brilliant  with  lights;  well 
dressed  people  hurried  on  their  way  to  theatre  and 
opera;  the  stores  and  restaurants  were  filled  with 
life  and  gaiety ;  and  the  light  fell  aslant  the  face  of 
the  boy  who  found  amusement  in  the  contempla 
tion  of  his  loss.  "Diavolo"  he  laughed,  ''they 
should  have  left  with  me  enough  for  supper.  Did 
I  know  the  thief  I  would  ask  of  him  a  few  soldi 
with  which  to  buy  soup,  aye,  and  some  fruit — as  a 
loan.  Scitana!  scullion!  Not  a  sou  left!  What  a 
beast  he  is !  I  have  not  enough  to  buy  me  one 
orange — one  very  small  orange.  Now,  were  it  he 
of  the  wooden  face — that  clod  of  the  fields  who 
taunted  me  on  the  train,  I  would  pummel  him, 
aye,  so  that  he  would  not  know  his  own  ill-favored 
visage  in  the  glass.  I  could  make  putty  of  that 
face,  even  though  he  had  not  my  purse.  I  must 
have  the  worth  of  the  good  gold  pieces  that  were 
mine.  Did  I  know  how  to  pray,  I  would  say, 

80 


"SILENT.  BREATHLESS,  A  LOOK  OF  RAPTURE  ON  HIS  FACE." 


TITO 

Heaven  guide  him  across  my  path.  But  the 
money — I  have  it  not,  and  America  is  far  away. 
That  it  is,  and  there  I  must  go,  but  how?  I  know 
naught  of  work,  and  besides  I  am  as  empty  as  a 
pail  that  has  stood  in  the  sun, — as  empty  as  are  my 
pockets.  Some  one  must  feed  me,  but  who?  Let 
me  see.  Tito,  thou  of  the  angel  face,"  he  laughed 
softly,  "a  hot  soup,  some  fruit  and, — and  coffee, 
cheese  and  a  tumbler  of  wine.  What  thinkest  thou 
of  that?  Verily  a  feast!  That,  some  one  must 
give  me.  I  have  never  gone  hungry,  nor  shall  I. 
A  lodging?  That  will  come  after.  America? 
That  shall  be  for  to-morrow." 

He  was  standing  opposite  a  fashionable  cafe. 
Dinner  was  being  served,  and  the  music  of  a  man 
dolin  orchestra  came  through  the  open  doors  and 
windows.  Never  had  he  heard  such  music.  It 
rose  and  fell  and  died  to  low  whispers.  The  boy 
listened  as  if  the  gates  of  Heaven  had  been  thrown 
open — the  flood  of  music  and  the  flashing  lights 
being  a  taste  of  the  unknown.  His  eyes  seemed  to 
bulge  from  their  sockets  as,  with  an  expression  of 
indefinable  pleasure,  he  stood  as  one  transformed 
— silent,  breathless,  a  look  of  rapture  on  his  face. 
He  was  wholly  unconscious  of  where  he  was;  to 
the  crowd  that  surged  about  him  he  gave  no  more 
attention  than  if  he  were  alone  in  the  fields  and 
the  woods,  with  the  stars  his  only  companions; 
nor  did  he  see  the  admiration  on  the  faces  of  those 
who  paused  to  look  at  him,  his  face  and  figure 
rivaling  the  beauty  of  the  marble  gods  on  the 
pedestals  of  the  Uffizi.  To  him,  at  that  moment, 

Si 


TITO 

the  strains  of  music  to  which  he  listened  with  an 
intoxication  of  delight  were  all  that  appealed  to 
thought  or  understanding.  The  orchestra  was 
playing  a  pot-pourri  of  popular  airs,  the  melodies 
that  stir  the  blood  of  the  impulsive  Italian.  After 
some  minutes  the  notes  of  a  folk-song  were  borne 
to  the  ears  of  Tito,  and  his  voice  rose  in  the 
familiar  strains  he  had  heard  the  peasants  chant  at 
their  labor.  A  crowd  gathered  about  him,  for  his 
voice  was  that  of  an  artist — ringing  out  in  tones 
that  vibrated  on  the  night  air — the  last  note  lin 
gering  in  a  cadence  of  marvelous  beauty. 


if-p"-! 

'•""  f  i  I 

PI 

'        •      \  S^-H  i^— 

-^   r    P  _^&d 

fl>. 


^/i/r   /  OT/PI  svnni       un      An  -  g#  -  lo 


TO       fie  -  to 


^ 


mia      ma     -    dn-         )     to      •    slo  at  pal-pi  - 1 


m 


ilt     -     sfo  ifell' 


all!  mf 


82 


TITO 


p 

tf  —  ^*—  H 

L=^ 

»* 


Prr-c/if!  ..... 


\-gli  oe 


i    spa  -  nf 


<rf  -  w.V 


PTPT   pi 


dre  mia  mn-drf  mo-ri 


o-rf     at-  me    to- 


t, 


r 


ma-tfrf    mo- 


The  song-  finished,  unabashed,  he  looked  at  the 
crowd  about  him,  a  smile  lighting  up  his  face.  A 
shout  of  approval  was  followed  by  a  shower  of 
coin,  that  many  hands  gathered  from  the  pave 
ment  to  give  to  him.  Laughing  gleefully,  he 
iingled  the  money  in  his  pockets,  and  was  about 
to  turn  away,  when  a  waiter  from  the  cafe  accosted 
him. 

"Thev   would   have   thee   within,"    he   was   in- 

tf 

formed. 

"But  I  will  eat/'  he  laughed,  "after  which—" 
"But  thou  wilt  eat  within,  and  well." 
"Good,"  he  replied,  "then  will  I  come." 
They  went  into  the  cafe,  and  the  best  was  set 

before  him.     He  needed  no  urging.    The  guests, 

83 


TITO 

mostly  artists,  watched  the  boy,  marveling,  mean 
time,  at  his  beauty,  which  his  peasant  garb,  by 
contrast,  only  accentuated,  while  Tito's  eyes  said 
plainly,  "I  am  well  content  to  be  here,  and  thou  art 
much  honored." 

"Mio  Dio!  What  eyes!  He  shall  sit  for  me." 
It  was  a  Florentine  artist  who  spoke. 

"What  insolence  is  there  in  his  expression!" 
whispered  his  companion.  "The  lines  of  the  neck 
and  the  poise  of  the  head — he  might  be  a  noble. 
What  do  they  call  thee?"  the  speaker  asked. 

"  'Little  Angel !'— 'Little  Devil/"  Tito  answered 
with  a  laugh.  The  wine  had  lent  a  flush  to  his 
cheeks,  and  his  eyes  shone  with  added  brilliancy. 
"Those  whom  1  do  not  please  call  me  by  another 
name,  but  for  that  they  must  fight  me." 

He  had  risen  from  his  seat,  and  stood  before 
them  with  head  thrown  back  in  the  manner  that 
was  wont  to  make  Mother  Malenotti  rage.  He 
was  conscious  of  his  strength,  and  the  many  faces 
against  the  background  of  splendor  did  not  dis 
concert  him. 

"Where  hast  thou  learned  to  sing?"  they  asked. 
There  was  kindly  concern  mixed  with  respect  in 
the  voice. 

"How  can  I  tell?"  answered  the  boy,  "I  sing  as 
the  birds  sing.  They  are  not  taught,  they  cannot 
help  singing.  Yes,  I  will  sing  for  thee — till  my 
voice  crack ;  but  thou  shalt  give  me  what  they  have 
robbed  me  of, — the  money  that  was  to  take  me  to 
America." 

"See,  'Little  Devil' !  the  name  suits  thee  well — 
84 


TITO 

thou  shalt  come  to  me  daily,  and  I  will  paint  thy 
portrait." 

"No,"  answered  the  boy,  "that  I  will  not." 
"But  the  money  to  take  thee  to  America?" 
"That  will  I  have  to-night.  Listen !" 
The  orchestra  was  again  playing,  and  the  boy, 
picking  up  the  melody,  sang  it  to  the  end.  His 
was  the  art  that  Nature  teaches,  and  his  voice  was 
one  that,  in  a  moment  of  profligacy,  she  had  be 
stowed  upon  him.  It  was  the  heaven-sent  gift 
that  no  art  can  imitate, — a  power  that  is  given  to 
but  few.  There  was  a  liquid  flexibility  in  his  tones, 
and  a  command  so  perfect  that  his  hearers  listened 
enthralled.  What  wonderful  beauty  was  in  that 
voice,  the  faces  of  those  who  heard  testified.  For 
the  moment,  to  the  eye  and  to  the  ear,  he  was  a 
divinity — his  features  those  of  an  angel,  his  figure 
that  of  a  young  Hercules;  but  his  mischievous 
expression  of  boyish  deviltry  broke  the  charm. 

The  last  note  was  followed  by  a  series  of  bravos. 
Silver  coin  and  not  a  few  bits  of  gold,  were  his  re 
ward.  He  counted  his  money, — he  had  more  than 
he  had  lost. 

"You  will  sing  again?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "when  it  pleases  me.  You 
have  given  me  that  which  is  mine;  with  it,  I  shall 
go  to  America.  When  I  sing  again  you  shall  not 
give  me  money,  for  I  have  now  what  was  taken 
from  me.  If  there  is  a  favor  I  might  ask,  it  is  that 
you  find  me  the  dolt  who  stole  my  money,  that  I 
may  beat  him." 

They  sketched  him  standing  in  the  glow  of  the 

85 


TITO 

lights,  his  eyes  and  cheeks  aflame  with  excite 
ment,  tingling  with  joy  at  the  knowledge  that  he 
had  done  well. 

It  was  midnight  when  he  went  to  a  modest  hotel 
where  he  slept  the  sleep  of  the  young  and  the 
healthy. 

Early  the  next  morning  he  was  astir.  The  city 
was  awakening  lazily  and  with  reluctance,  pre 
senting  a  brilliant  panorama  to  the  eyes  and  the 
mind  of  the  boy.  The  cool,  clear  morning  air 
sent  the  blood  dancing  through  his  veins ;  and  the 
sun's  rays  painted  the  distant  Apennines  a  hazy 
purple.  He  thought  but  little  of  his  mission  or  his 
prospective  journey — enough  for  him  that  he 
lived,  that  he  breathed,  that  he  felt  his  pulses 
quicken ;  for  what  he  saw  filled  him  with  new  and 
wonderful  delight;  and  he  paused  in  his  walk  to 
gaze  with  wonder  on  the  wealth  of  beauty  spread 
before  him.  While  he  looked  at  the  picture 
framed  by  the  distant  hills  and  blue  above,  for  one 
moment  his  heart  and  his  mind  were  nearer  God 
than  they  had  ever  been  during  his  young  life. 
The  influence  of  the  mystery  of  creation,  the  works 
of  art  and  of  nature,  sublime  in  their  matchless 
beauty,  left  him  speechless.  He  caught  his  breath 
sharply,  for  a  spell  of  enchantment  was  upon  him. 

Entering  one  of  the  galleries,  he  gazed  long  and 
earnestly  at  the  art  treasures;  for  even  he,  young 
as  he  was,  and  untrained,  could  appreciate  the 
marvels  of  art  that  he  saw.  A  Raffaello,  a  Michel 
angelo,  a  Correggio,  spoke  to  him  a  new  language. 
He  looked  upon  the  portrait  of  the  Madonna  and 

86 


TITO 

the  Child.  His  mother,  perhaps  she,  too,  had 
stood  here  as  he  now  stood,  and  gazed  with  the 
same  feeling  of  rapture — the  lovely  Bettina,  whom 
even  the  old  woman  had  power  to  describe  as  one 
rivaling  in  beauty  these  very  works  of  art — the 
portraits  that  looked  down  upon  him.  The  first 
tears  that  the  memory  of  that  mother  had  ever 
awakened  stole  to  his  eyes — the  first  longing 
throbs  of  love  quickened  his  heart-beats.  Gazing 
at  the  portrait  of  the  Madonna,  he  mentally  pic 
tured  the  fair  Italian  girl — she  who  had  given  her 
young  life  at  his  birth.  From  its  hiding  place,  in 
an  inner  pocket  of  his  coat,  he  drew  the  small  bit 
of  canvas  which  was  all  that  was  left  to  him  of  his 
mother's  work  of  love,  and,  raising  it  to  his  lips, 
kissed  it  reverently.  Into  his  face  came  a  spiritual 
expression,  and  those  near  him  forgot  the  works 
of  the  dead  masters  to  observe  the  face  of  the  boy, 
who,  unconscious  of  all  the  world,  looked  with 
tender,  lingering  love  upon  the  memento  of  his 
mother's  skill.  Regretfully,  and  with  loving  touch, 
he  replaced  the  picture  in  his  pocket,  and  with  a 
sigh  that  was  half  a  sob  walked  away. 

Turning  abruptly  into  one  of  the  galleries,  he 
came  face  to  face  with  the  artist,  who,  the  night 
before,  had  begged  him  to  sit  for  a  portrait.  The 
artist  recognized  Tito  at  once,  and  a  smile  of 
pleasure  played  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

"Well,  'Little— 

"Devil,"  said  Tito,  promptly. 

"I  have  been  thinking  of  thee  and  the  journey 
thou  wilt  take.  Tell  me !  Why  not  stay  here  in 


TITO 

Florence,  where  that  voice  of  thine  might  be 
heard,  until  something  could  be  made  of  it  to 
which  the  world  would  listen  ?  America  is  not  for 
thee.  There  the  artist  in  thee  will  be  starved. 
Thou  wilt  be  as  the  flower  that  dies,  because  the 
sun  is  forbidden  it,  or  that  the  dew  kisses  to  life,  to 
be  withered  by  the  blast  of  the  noonday  heat. 
What  wouldst  thou  of  America?" 

The  boy's  eyes  flashed.  The  blood  surged  to  his 
cheek,  for  the  thought  of  his  mission  to  America 
brought  with  it  a  fierce  gust  of  passion.  In  mem 
ory,  he  was  again  with  the  old  woman — her  rasp 
ing  tones  grating  on  his  hearing,  until  every  evil 
element  was  aroused,  and  every  nerve  in  his  body 
responded  to  the  fury  that  took  possession  of  him. 
He  remembered  now,  that,  which  for  one  hour  he 
had  forgotten,  his  mission — his  revenge. 

"Mio  Dio!  Stand  as  thou  art  for  one  little  min 
ute  until  I  sketch  thee.  Thou  art  truly  named, 
'Little  Devil.'  Tell  me  what  I  may  say  to  make 
the  fire  dance  in  thine  eyes  ?  They  have  the  depth 
of  expression,  and  the  liquid  tenderness  of  our 
own  Italia.  The  flames  of  hell  could  not  shoot 
such  gleams.  Ah!  I  have  it.  Divino!  Truly 
thou  art  of  Italia — but  thy  fair  skin?" 

This  last  was  as  a  match  to  a  train  of  gunpowder. 
The  artist  looked  in  astonishment,  for  his  ears, 
tuned  though  they  were  to  the  license  of  his  craft, 
and  the  free  speech  of  compatriots  of  his  calling, 
as  well  as  models  of  all  classes  or  of  no  class  at  all, 
stood  amazed,  while  he  listened  to  the  volley  of 
oaths  that  fell  from  the  lips  of  the  boy. 

88 


TITO 

"Verily,  Ly  inferno!  but  sublime!  If  thou  wilt 
stay  here  in  Fircnza  till  I  get  the  fire  of  those  eyes 
onto  canvas — thou  canst  name  thy  price.  What 
sayest  thou,  boy?" 

"That  for  all  the  wealth  of  Firenza  I  would  not 
remain." 

"Come,"  said  the  artist,  as  he  laid  aside  his  un 
finished  work,  "it  is  time  to  eat.  Thou  shalt  eat 
with  me,  and  we  will  talk,  and  thou  shalt  tell  me 
of  thyself." 

Together  they  walked  to  a  cafe  in  the  Via  Tor- 
nabuoni.  Here  they  seated  themselves,  and  over 
their  coffee  Tito's  artist  friend  heard  the  boy's 
story.  With  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  mobile  counte 
nance  before  him,  Tito's  companion  listened  en 
raptured  and,  with  the  instinct  of  the  true  artist, 
watched  the  boy's  changing  expression  that  voiced 
his  thoughts  more  eloquently  than  his  tongue  had 
the  power  to  do;  and  the  artist  read  his  life  story 
on  his  face — the  intense  passion,  the  flashes  of 
tenderness,  the  eyes  that  spoke  in  dumb  eloquence 
of  a  soul  starved,  distorted,  groping  in  the  dark 
for  an  outlet  for  his  affection, — seeking  the  love 
that  it  craved. 

"But  why  surrender  thyself,  thy  life,  to  this  hate, 
this  passion,  this  revenge?  If  thou  hast  no  father 
— perbacco!  thou  hast  no  father!  What  of  it?" 
The  artist's  voice  was  bantering.  He  did  not  de 
sire  to  offend  the  boy.  He  regarded  him  as  a  find 
— a  discovery,  one  in  whom  was  the  power  to  ac 
complish  great  things.  His  only  desire  was  to 
turn  him  from  his  determination  to  sacrifice  his 

89 


TITO 

energy,  his  life ;  for  he  could  read  faces,  characters, 
and  he  recognized  in  Tito  the  promise  of  a  great 
future. 

"And  thou  wilt  go?"  the  artist  asked. 

"Yes.  That  will  I.  And  this  New  York— 
knowest  thou  of  it?" 

"It  is  a  great  city  of  many  people.  Riches  they 
have — aye,  untold  wealth — but  art — pooh !  They 
measure  art  by  the  tradesman's  tape.  Their  God 
is  not  thine.  They  will  not  understand  thee,  nor 
thou  them.  The  artist  in  thee  will  rebel — thou 
wilt  cry  aloud  for  the  blue  of  the  sky,  the  fra 
grance,  the  beauty  of  our  own  Italia.  They  will 
not  feel  what  thou  dost  now,  and  the  soul  within 
thee  will  wither.  Stay  with  me,  my  son,  and  thou 
shalt  study  art — the  art  that  is  thy  master." 

"I  will  come  back,  perhaps,  but  it  shall  be  when 
I  have  washed  the  stain  from  my  blood,  when  I 
"shall  have  heard  the  coward  father  cry  out  with 
pain — when  he  hears  me  tell  him  that  I — Tito,  his 
son,  have  avenged  her  \vhom  he  was  ashamed  to 
acknowledge.  My  mother !  Beautiful !  Aye ! 
The  old  woman  has  told  me, — with  eyes  like  those 
of  the  Madonna  in  the  galleries.  She,  too,  was  an 
artist,  as  thou  art.  See !"  he  cried,  drawing  the  bit 
of  canvas  from  his  pocket.  "Is  not  that  art?  If 
it  is  not,  then  am  I  blind.  Must  not  her  hand  have 
been  small  and  beautiful  to  have  drawn  the  lines? 
Must  not  her  touch  have  been  gentle  as  an  angel's 
to  have  wrought  such  beauty?  Canst  thou  not 
see  her  as  I  see  her,  standing  before  the  portrait  of 
the  Madonna,  with  her  eyes  uplifted,  with  the 

90 


TITO 

beauty  that  the  gods  give  ?  For  it  is  so  that  I  pic 
tured  her,  with  cheeks  that  the  sun  had  kissed  to 
a  peach  blow.  Had  I  the  art,  I  could  paint  her  as 
the  old  woman  described  her;  for  even  she,  with 
her  devil's  tongue,  made  of  her  one  that  beauty 
had  touched  not  lightly." 

He  leaned  across  the  table  at  which  they  sat  and 
poured  forth  his  soul  in  words  to  which  his  com 
panion  listened,  enraptured  by  their  impassioned 
fervor.  The  ears  of  the  artist  drank  in  the  music 
of  the  boy's  voice,  while  his  eyes  were  riveted  on 
the  face  before  him,  flushed  with  emotions  he  did 
not  seek  to  hide. 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply  as  Tito  paused.  "I  see  as 
thou  seest,  aye,  and  feel  the  power  that  moves 
thee,  for  it  is  the  artist  within  thee,  as  well  as  the 
son,  that  speaks.  Mio  Dio!  What  a  fortune 
might  be  thine !  Stay  with  me,  let  me  teach  thee, 
fanciullo,  mio — for  the  fire  within  is  consuming 
thee.  Thou  shalt  be  my  son,  and  thou,  too,  shalt 
paint — as  thy  mother  did — unless  I  have  lost  the 
trick  of  my  calling.  Listen  to  reason !  Thou  canst 
not  wipe  out  this  wrong — that  cannot  be.  Thou 
art  giving  thy  young  life  to  a  cause  that  is  empty 
— empty  as  the  vacuum  in  a  bubble  that  is  blown 
into  air.  This  old  woman  has  filled  thee  with  a 
desire  to  avenge  thy  mother — as  senseless  as  the 
vendetta  of  our  own  race.  Stay  here,  my  son,  and 
thou  shalt  be  great,  famous,  I  promise  thee;  for 
though  thou  hast  the  passion  that  gave  thee  thy 
name — 'Little  Devil' — there  slumbers  the  soul  of  a 
Michelangelo  within  thee.  Stay,  and  forget — " 


TITO 

"Nay,"  cried  the  boy  with  flashing  eyes,  "that 
I  will  not!  This  father — he  is  an  aristocrat,  a 
noble.  I  shall  ask  him  why  he  brought  me  into  the 
world.  I  shall  cry  out  to  him — 'Look  at  me,  thou 
coward!  Seest  thou  the  stamp  of  shame  on  me? 
Canst  thou  rub  it  away?'  And  I  shall  taunt  him, 
and  he  will  cringe,  and,  maybe,  he  will  offer  me 
money — as  he  would  to  a  beggar.  And  I  shall 
throw  it  in  his  face!  Do  you  hear?  In  his  face!" 

For  a  moment,  he  was,  in  memory,  again  in  the 
cottage  by  the  roadway,  and  the  wrinkled  visage 
of  the  old  woman  rose  before  him — grinning  with 
an  expression  of  fiendish  glee — her  words  echoing 
on  the  summer  stillness,  "Remember  thy  promise, 
my  Tito,  remember  what  they  call  thee — " 

The  boy's  hand  fell  upon  the  table  and  instinc 
tively  clutched  the  knife  that  lay  upon  it.  The 
eyes  of  his  companion  followed  the  movement,  and 
with  a  sigh  he  rose. 

"He  must  work  out  his  own  destiny,"  he  mused. 
"He  is  a  god!"  "Enough,"  he  said  aloud,  "come, 
I  have  much  to  do,  but  it  must  wait.  Thou  shalt 
go  with  me,  and  I  will  point  out  the  masters  that 
thou  wilt  love  and  serve.  Thou  shalt  have  one 
little  taste  of  art,  of  beauty  that  is  not  mortal." 

Together  they  walked  in  the  direction  of  the 
Uffizi. 


92 


CHAPTER    XL 

GOOD  was  steadily  at  work  in  Tito's  heart 
and  mind,  persistently  refusing  to  be 
crowded  or  crushed  by  the  elements  of 
viciousness  that  had  been  instilled  into  his  mind 
by  the  baneful  influence  of  Mother  Malenotti. 
Knocking  at  the  door  of  his  conscience,  and  ap 
pealing  to  his  understanding,  were  feelings  that 
baffled  him,  and  set  his  emotions  into  a  riot.  An 
impulse  for  good  would  rise  in  him  only  to  be  met 
and  put  aside  by  a  power  stronger  than  his  will — 
a  power  fostered  by  years  of  wilfulness,  and  pas 
sions  that  had  never  known  restraint.  Nature 
whispered  her  secrets  to  him,  and  the  ear  of  his 
imagination  had,  day  by  day,  been  assailed  by 
thoughts  and  dreams  that  the  beauties  of  the 
world  engendered.  Of  an  imaginative  and  ar 
tistic  temperament,  since  the  old  woman's  death, 
the  influence  of  nature  and  of  art  had  been  making 
itself  felt ;  and  emotions,  which  he  could  not  under 
stand,  were  results  of  his  inner  subconscious  nature 
asserting  itself. 

The  artist  and  the  boy  went  toward  the  Uffisi. 
They  walked  slowly,  the  artist  talking  gently,  even 
affectionately;  pointing  out  and  explaining  what 
would  be  of  interest  and  benefit  to  him.  They  had 


93 


TITO 

turned  south  from  the  cafe  and  entered  the  cathe 
dral.  Standing  where  they  could  look  upon  the 
sweep  of  the  vast  edifice,  Tito's  companion 
watched  him  narrowly  to  observe  its  effect  upon 
him.  It  was  the  first  time  in  his  young  life  that  he 
had  ever  entered  a  church,  for  although  Mother 
Malenotti,  in  her  own  way,  professed  the  Catholic 
faith,  it  had  been  her  care  to  turn  the  boy's  mind 
from  all  religious  thought  and  influence.  He  had 
conceived  a  terrible,  all  powerful  God,  who  visited 
his  wrath  on  those  who  felt  not  the  sacredness  of 
an  oath.  The  good  within  him  came  from  natural 
instincts,  not  from  teaching  or  example.  As  they 
entered  the  church  and  stood  near  the  door,  Tito 
was  lost  in  contemplation  of  the  grandeur  before 
him;  but  it  appealed  to  the  material,  not  to  the 
spiritual,  side  of  his  nature. 

"What  is  this  God?"  he  asked  with  the  candor 
of  his  years.  "He  has  done  naught  for  me.  I  see 
all  this  beauty !  Yes,  truly,  but  it  is  not  His  work. 
The  hand  of  man  wrought  this, — aye,  and  they  are 
dead.  What  did  this  God  do  for  them?  Tell  me 
that!  If  I  ask  Him  for  the  purse  that  was  mine, 
He  does  not  give  it  to  me.  Why,  then,  should  I 
give  Him  thanks?  For  being  robbed  by  some 
malandrino  who,  on  a  feast  day,  will  drop  one  of 
my  good  coins  into  the  poor-box?  And 'the  thief 
will  be  blessed  for  it.  And  could  I  not  sing,  would 
I  not  have  gone  hungry?" 

The  artist  smiled.  He,  himself  was  not  of  ardent 
belief;  and  the  bov's  talk  amused  him. 


94 


TITO 

'Truly/'  he  said,  "thou  art  a  little  pagano.  Yet 
these  things  come  to  thee.  See !  Do  not  these 
works  of  art  speak  to  thee  of  a  power  greater  than 
man's?  Our  hands  and  brains  are  only  the  in 
struments,  the  tools  that,  by  His  divine  will,  have 
been  given  us  to  perform  these  miracles  of  art. 
Dost  thou  not  feel  the  power,  boy  ?  Does  not  this 
beauty  speak  to  thee  and  stir  the  heart  of  the  art 
ist?  The  little  devil  within  thee  is  of  the  flesh — 
but  thy  soul,  has  it  not  spoken  yet  ?" 

The  boy  did  not  reply.  He  was  lost  in  a  newly 
discovered  heaven.  He  did  not  hear  his  compan 
ion,  and  his  eyes  told  that  the  spell  of  beauty,  of 
the  art  of  creation,  was  upon  him.  For  that  one 
moment  his  inner  conscience  controlled  his  facul 
ties,  his  being.  The  mystery  of  the  conception  of 
the  soul  was  being  wrought,  and  the  emotions  that 
filled  him  seemed  to  paralyze  all  else. 

The  artist's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  boy's  face. 
"Madonna  Mia,"  he  muttered,  "a  Tiziano  would 
cry  aloud  could  he  behold  that  face — the  tender 
lines  of  an  angel,  with  the  eyes  of  a  young  demon." 

Still  the  boy,  speechless,  gazed  at  the  wonders 
before  him.  At  length,  with  a  soft,  prolonged 
sigh,  he  turned  to  the  artist. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "let  us  go." 

They  went  out  into  the  bright  sunlight,  the  spell 
still  at  work  on  Tito's  mind — the  germ  of  faith  had 
taken  root.  Crossing  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  they 
entered  the  CaHcria  clegli  Uffizl.  Each  picture, 
statue  and  work  of  art,  was,  to  the  artist,  as  an  old 


95 


TITO 

acquaintance,  and  he  led  the  boy  to  those  which 
most  strongly  appealed  to  him.  Pausing  before 
Lippi's  Virgine,  the  artist  waited  for  Tito  to  speak, 
for  when  he  had  shown  him  the  copy,  his  mother's 
work,  the  artist  had  recognized  it  as  a  reproduc 
tion  of  the  famous  painting — he  had  noted,  too, 
that  it  was  of  a  high  order  of  merit. 

One  look  at  the  original  and  Tito  drew  forth  the 
canvas  from  his  pocket,  and  a  smile,  tender,  loving, 
yet  sorrowful,  lighted  up  his  countenance. 
"Look,"  he  cried,  pointing  to  the  portrait  with 
suppressed  excitement,  "this  was  her  model.  Is 
not  the  copy  wonderful?  Here,  then,  was  where 
she  worked,  where  she  stood — even  as  I  now  stand, 
— her  son !  I,  who  am  to  avenge  the  wrong 
she  suffered.  It  was  here  that  he,  perhaps,  first 
met  her.  Ah!  my  mother,  why  couldst  thou  not 
have  lived  until  the  day  when  I  would  say  to  thee 
— 'See !  thy  son  hast  avenged  thee,  for  the  blood 
that  flows  in  my  veins  is  of  Italia.'' ' 

Gazing  long  and  lovingly,  but  with  a  critical  eye, 
at  the  portrait  he  held,  he  turned  to  the  orig 
inal.  The  spirit  of  the  artist  spoke  in  every  look, 
every  gesture.  His  companion,  at  some  distance 
from  him,  watched  the  constantly  changing  ex 
pression  on  the  boy's  face. 

"I,  too,"  he  resumed,  "may  do  these  things. 
Why  cannot  I  paint  the  images?  If  this  father 
gave  to  me  his  fair  skin,  have  I  not  the  Italian 
blood  of  my  mother?"  Turning  to  his  companion, 
he  impulsively  added :  "Thou  shalt  teach  me,  but 

96 


TITO 

not  now.  When  I  return  to  dear  Italia,  when  this 
father  shall  have  felt  the  sting  of  my  knife — then 
shalt  thou  teach  me  thy  art.  Thinkest  thou  I 
could  learn?" 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply,  while  the  artist's  eyes 
rested  on  the  upturned  face  with  tender  regard. 
"I  shall  teach  thee,  for  thou  hast  thy  mother's  soul. 
Thou  shalt  learn,  and  I  shall  paint  thy  portrait, 
fanciullo  mio,  if  the  world  does  not  rob  thee  of 
the  fire  in  those  eyes.  But  in  America  thou  wilt 
become  indifferent  to  the  beauties  the  'good  God 
gave  to  us,  and  when  thou  wilt  come  back  to 
Italia,  thou  wilt  not  care  for  it,  nor  for  the  art  that 
thou  now  lovest.  Thou  wilt  be  like  the  birds  that 
would  sing  but  cannot,  because  their  tongues  are 
withered,  and  their  voices  are  hushed;  and  only 
the  memories  of  their  young  lives  are  left  them." 

The  boy  did  not  answer  and  they  turned  to  go. 

"Think  well  of  what  I  have  told  thee,"  the  artist 
said  as  they  neared  the  Arno. 

The  sun  was  sinking  behind  the  purple  hills,  and 
a  golden  haze  hung  over  river  and  valley.  The 
warm  glow  bathed  the  tower  of  the  Palazzo  Vec- 
chio  in  a  languorous  flood  of  shimmering  gold ; 
and  a  buzz  of  life  arose  in  response  to  the  call  of 
approaching  evening. 

Tito's  pulses  throbbed  with  pleasure  at  the 
sights  and  the  sounds,  for  Florence  was  astir  to 
drink  in  the  beauty.  The  words  of  the  artist,  as 
much  as  what  he  had  seen  and  heard,  had  made  a 
deep  impression  upon  him.  Though  the  effect 

97 


TITO 

might  not  be  lasting,  new  thoughts  and  new  emo 
tions  had  taken  possession  of  his  heart  and  mind. 

But  here  again  chance  rudely  interfered — for, 
as  they  approached  the  Ponte  Vecchio,  the  young 
peasant  who  had  taunted  Tito  in  the  railway  car 
riage,  stood,  not  fifty  feet  away,  in  the  act  of  pur 
chasing  some  confections  from  a  street  vender, 
in  his  hand  Tito's  missing  purse.  The  concen 
trated  passions  of  his  lifetime  seemed  to  take  pos 
session  of  the  boy.  With  catlike  stride  he  stood 
before  the  offender  and,  before  the  culprit  had 
time  to  secrete  the  purse,  wrenched  it  from  his 
hand. 

"You  thief!  You  beast!  You  clod  of  the 
fields!"  There  was  a  hush,  and  his  voice  rang 
clear,  "Now  will  I  teach  you  better  graces !" 

With  clenched  fist  he  struck  out  boldly,  and  the 
offender  sprawled  on  the  pavement  at  his  feet. 
Rising  clumsily,  he  faced  the  enraged  Tito,  but 
again  he  measured  his  length  on  the  stone  pave 
ment,  blood  flowing  from  his  face. 

Now  it  is  no  uncommon  sight  to  see  the  natu 
rally  indolent  and  easy-going  Florentines  indulging 
in  a  wordy  war,  gesticulating  wildly  and,  to  one  not 
acquainted  with  the  Italian  temperament,  seem 
ingly  on  the  point  of  coming  to  blows;  but,  as  a 
rule,  words  are  their  only  weapons.  They  enter 
tain  a  wholesome  fear  of  the  law,  which  frowns 
upon  those  who  would  question  its  supremacy,  not 
even  countenancing  what  might  be  deemed  an  act 
of  self-defence. 

98 


TITO 

Tito's  belligerent  act  brought  about  him  a 
crowd  who  were  mightily  pleased,  for  their  sym 
pathies  went  out  to  the  fair-haired  youth  whose 
eyes  shot  gleams  of  defiance  at  the  awkward  coun 
tryman;  but  it  also  brought  the  Guardia  di  Citta 
and,  before  he  realized  it,  he  was  in  the  stern 
clutches  of  the  law.  An  impromptu  investigation 
immediately  followed.  Tito's  friend,  who  stood 
behind  him  to  champion  his  cause,  calmly  received 
the  marked  courtesies  which  the  officials  of  law 
and  order  paid  to  him,  for  his  name  was  a  power. 
The  boy  was  in  no  conciliatory  frame  of  mind.  He 
was  ready  to  continue  the  battle,  but  a  restraining 
hand  grasped  him  by  the  collar  of  his  coat.  The 
officer,  having  set  in  motion  the  machinery  of  his 
civic  authority,  demanded  the  cause  of  the  breach 
of  peace. 

"This  swine-herder,"  volunteered  Tito,  indicat 
ing  his  adversary  with  a  finger  of  scorn,  "stole  my 
purse,  with  the  good  gold  that  was  mine;  and  he 
has  dared  show  it  to  me  that  I  may  know  he  had 
it  in  his  filthy  pocket.  And  thou,"  he  continued, 
addressing  the  officer,  "with  all  thy  fierce  mus- 
tachios  and  rusty  sword,  which  is  good  only  to 
slit  a  cabbage,  if  thou  ever  earned  the  hundred  lire 
the  government  pays  thee,  this  bullet-headed  pig 
could  not  have  stolen  my  good  gold." 

The  crowd  roared  with  delight  and  Tito  glared 
upon  him  of  the  bloody  face. 

"What  have  you  to  say?"  asked  the  officer,  of 
the  object  of  Tito's  wrath.  A  closer  grip  at  the 


99 


TITO 

nape  of  Tito's  neck  warned  him  that  he  would  yet 
answer  for  his  freedom  of  speech.  The  peasant, 
with  dogged  persistence,  denied  the  imputation  of 
theft.  He  had  found  the  purse.  As  he  had  come 
by  it  honestly,  the  money  was  his. 

"Now,"  retorted  Tito,  "will  I  beat  you  twice, 
you  lying  thief!  Wait  till  it  pleases  these  white- 
gloved  warriors  to  release  me,  and  will  I  paint  your 
face  again  with  your  dirty  blood." 

"Cease  this,"  cried  the  officer,  "what  do  they  call 
thee?" 

"Tito,"  he  replied,  meeting  the  officer's  glance 
unflinchingly. 

"What  else?" 

"Just  Tito.    'Little  Devil/  if  you  like  it  better." 

"Thou  art  rightly  named.  Listen  to  me,  'Little 
Devil.'  If  thou  wilt  promise  to  behave  thyself  and 
learn  to  cultivate  a  civil  tongue,  I  may  let  thee  go." 

"I  promise  nothing  but  to  beat  that  swine- 
herder  when  I  next  meet  him." 

"Shall  I  take  thee  before  the  Commissioner  of 
Police?" 

"Do,"  replied  Tito,  "that  I  may  tell  him  thy 
worth." 

The  artist  spoke  to  the  officer,  who,  with  a  mili 
tary  salute,  released  Tito,  and,  promising  to  be  in 
court  the  following  morning,  they  went  on  their 
way. 

The  artist  smiled.  Another  side  of  the  boy's 
nature  had  been  revealed  to  him.  What  element 
in  his  nature  would  eventually  assume  the  mas- 

100 


TITO 

tery?  This  he  asked  himself  as  they  walked  to 
gether,  and  he  listened  to  the  boy's  outpouring  of 
passion.  "He  will  rise  to  great  things,"  he 
mused,  "either  for  good  or  for  evil.  It  will  be  as 
Fate  directs.  If  chance  throws  him  in  the  way  of 
good,  he  will  absorb  it  readily.  He  is  like  a  flower 
of  wonderful  promise,  till  its  rank  growth  threat 
ens  to  strangle  it,  for  he  has  his  mother's  beauty 
and  talent,  with  an  indomitable  will  and  a  daring 
courage.  Does  he  take  this  from  his  father,  and 
they  ever  meet — then  will  there  be  a  tragedy  in 
deed/' 

"Tell  me  of  thy  mother,"  he  said  to  the  boy. 
They  were  leaning  against  the  spalletta,  the  turbu 
lent  Arno  at  their  feet  singing  in  fitful  rhythm, 
while  the  night  shadows  closed  in  upon  them. 
Tito  told  what  he  knew, — his  voice,  tuned  to  a  low 
pitch,  falling  upon  the  ear  of  his  listener  with  a 
measured,  musical  cadence,  that  was  as  the  echo 
of  the  song  he  had  sung  the  night  before.  Passion 
seemed  to  have  died  into  sorrow,  and  the  tones  of 
his  voice,  more  than  his  words,  told  that  the  sub 
ject  touched  him  deeply.  Neither  did  the  mention 
of  Mother  Malenotti  seem  to  stir  the  rage  which 
reference  to  her  commonly  awakened,  and  his 
manner,  subdued,  dejected,  was  that  of  one  who 
feels  keenly  the  want  of  a  love  he  has  never  known. 
At  times,  when  he  described  the  home  that  yet 
rose  vividly  to  his  mind,  his  language  grew  elo 
quent,  and  he  painted  a  word  picture  that  stood 
out  clear,  distinct,  poetic  in  its  unstudied,  uncon- 


101 


TITO 

scions  realism.  He  spoke  of  the  old  woman  with 
out  feeling,  for,  although  memories  of  her  still 
rankled  in  his  young  heart,  he  seemed  imbued  with 
a  feeling  in  which  sorrowful  remembrance  stifled 
all  other  emotions.  "And  now,"  he  continued, 
while  the  first  stars,  through  a  rift  in  the  line  made 
by  the  frowning  Apennines,  told  that  they  had 
talked  till  night  was  with  them,  "and  now,  I  have 
nothing  but  the  legacy  of  hate  the  old  woman 
willed  to  me.  Who  am  I  ?  Who  was  the  mother 
that  is  dead?  Some  one  who  was  young  and  of 
great  beauty.  Who  is  the  father  that  is  living? 
The  old  woman  has  told  me  that  he  lives.  Who 
am  I?  Tito,  just  Tito.  If  thou  shouldst  ask  me 
further,  I  cannot  tell,  unless  I  add,  fanciullo,  or 
Piccolo  d'Ignoti.  Madonna  Mia,  that  it  should  be 
so — or  worse,  that  it  be  true/' 

He  laughed.  Again  he  was  the  young  Tuscan 
in  the  valley  of  the  Arno.  Again  the  fierce  passion 
returned,  and  body  and  soul  surrendered  to  its 
influence. 

"If  it  be  true — what  would  they  do  to  a  son, 
who,  with  his  father's  lifeblood  dripping  from  his 
knife,  should  cry  out,  'See !  It  is  I,  Tito,  who  have 
done  this?" 

A  pause  followed,  that  only  the  hum  of  the  city 
disturbed,  until  broken  by  the  artist. 

"Don't,  boy,  don't!"  his  voice  was  filled  with 
horror.  "Think  thou  of  thy  God !" 

"My  God?  I  think  of  my  mother!  My 
mother — "  A  sob  broke  on  the  stillness,  and  the 


1 02 


TITO 

night  shadows  hid  the  tears  that  ran  down  the 
cheeks  of  the  boy. 

The  river  sang  its  song  and  rushed  heedlessly 
on.  It  seemed  but  yesterday  that  it  had  listened 
to  the  cries  of  the  great  Savonarola  as  he  burned 
at  the.  stake ;  and  its  waters  had  borne  his  ashes  to 
the  sea.  Centuries  were  as  but  years,  but  days. 
To  sorrow  it  lent  no  ear,  and  time  rolled  on 
unnoted. 

To  the  two  silent  figures,  night  spoke  a  lan 
guage  they  understood. 


103 


CHAPTER   XII. 

IT  was  high  noon.     From  the  stern  of  an  ocean 
steamer,  Tito  looked  across  the  smooth  waters 
of  the  harbor  of  Genoa,  at  the  city,  rising  in  a 
gleaming  semi-circle  from  the  water's  edge — a  vast 
amphitheatre  in  white,  decorated  at  its  base  by  a 
fringe  of  masts,  from  which  the  water  in  the  inner 
harbor  seemed  to  hang,   a  curtain   of  blue  that 
merged  with  the  green  of  the  gulf. 

The  steamer  was  to  touch  at  Naples,  and  from 
that  point  was  to  proceed  to  New  York.  Coming 
aboard  early,  Tito  had  seen  and  learned  much.  He 
was  in  the  steerage,  and  for  the  past  four  hours 
he  had  been  on  the  ship,  long  enough,  however, 
to  get  into  an  altercation  with  one  of  the  passen 
gers,  to  be  twice  ordered  from  the  bow,  which 
was  forbidden  territory,  and  to  designate  a  deck 
hand,  who  had  inconsiderately  jostled  him,  as  a 
Neapolitan  pig.  This  did  not  augur  well  for  his 
peace  and  comfort  during  the  trip,  but  he  refused 
to  seriously  consider  these  little  incidents,  and  he 
leaned  against  the  rail  lost  in  contemplation  of 
the  beauties  of  the  receding  shore.  He  would 
arrive  in  New  York  nearly,  if  not  quite,  penniless; 
but  this  seemed  a  matter  too  remote  to  consider. 
Enough  for  him  that  the  sky  had  never  seemed  so 

104 


TITO 

blue,  and  the  sea  was  something  new  and  enchant- 
ingly  beautiful — the  air  sighing  through  the  rig 
ging  in  fitful  little  gusts,  the  water  singing  its  lap 
ping  refrain  at  bow  and  stern.  What  propelled  the 
ship  was  a  mystery  yet  to  be  solved;  and  he  had 
serious  designs  on  the  captain's  bridge.  Surmis 
ing  that  this  point  of  vantage  was  forbidden,  he 
would  watch  his  opportunity;  for  rules,  even  on 
shipboard,  are  made  to  be  broken,  and  he  deter 
mined  to  tread  the  sacred  boards  of  the  captain's 
perch.  The  punishment !  Pooh !  That  was  in 
the  future. 

When  the  city  had  become  but  a  white  speck, 
and  the  shore  a  broken  line  on  the  horizon,  he 
turned  his  attention  to  the  passengers.  They  were 
a  picturesque  crowd  from  the  provinces  of  north 
ern  Italy,  types  of  the  peasant  class,  fantastically 
attired,  and  many  of  them  spoke  a  patois  which 
the  boy  could  not  understand.  With  the  instinct 
of  the  artist  he  noted  the  details  of  each  face  and 
figure,  and,  as  they  stood  huddled  close  together, 
like  a  flock  of  sheep,  he  determined  to  sketch  them. 
He  had  procured  in  Florence  paper  and  pencil,  for 
he,  too,  would  draw,  he  would  make  pictures  and, 
when  he  returned  to  Florence,  the  master  who  had 
spoken  to  him  of  art  and  of  the  soul,  should  see 
them. 

During  the  last  few  years  of  the  old  woman's 
life  she  had  been  given  to  talking  aloud,  and  her 
fear  that  she  would  betray  the  secret  of  Tito's  birth 
prompted  her  to  speak  in  the  broken  English 

105 


TITO 

which,  during  her  visit  to  America,  and  in  listen 
ing  to  Vanburg  as  he  taught  Bettina  his  native 
tongue,  she  had  been  able  to  acquire.  With  the 
quick  ear  of  childhood,  and  with  the  avidity  of  one 
to  whom  knowledge  is  denied,  he  had  learned  a 
fair  amount  of  the  language. 

He  listened  to  the  few  among  the  passengers 
who  could  speak  English — fellow  countrymen  who 
were  returning  to  America  after  a  visit  to  their 
native  land,  and  their  words,  together  with  their 
facial  expressions  and  wild  gestures,  carried  under 
standing  to  his  mind. 

Thus  the  time  was  occupied,  and  the  drowsy 
Mediterranean  sighed  as  she  slept,  and  lifted  the 
ship  with  gentle  pulsations.  The  breezes  sighed 
ravishingly,  and  the  sun  beat  down  on  the  throng 
lying  at  full  length  upon  the  deck,  dreaming  of  the 
land  of  beauty  which  they  had  left,  and  of  the 
wonderful  land  of  promise  and  of  gold  to  which 
each  turn  of  the  screw  brought  them  nearer.  The 
ship  entered  the  bay  which  is  without  peer,  and 
they  wrere  at  Naples.  Here,  more  countrymen 
came  aboard,  and  Tito  liked  them  less.  A  Neapol 
itan,  even  in  his  own  country,  is  not  regarded  with 
favor,  for  the  quintessence  of  filth  and  poverty 
does  not  tend  to  make  a  race  of  people  that  might 
be  termed  idealistic.  The  beauty  that  nature,  with 
whimsical  disregard  of  the  law  of  equation,  was 
pleased  to  heap  with  startling  profligacy  under 
the  shadow  of  Vesuvius,  as  yet,  apparently,  had 
not  touched  the  populace.  The  lowest  order,  as  a 

106 


TITO 

class,  are  not  good  to  look  upon,  and  a  closer  in 
timacy  is  productive  of  less  delight.  As  a  rule, 
however,  the  Italians  of  the  poorer  class  are  exam 
ples  of  true  gentleness,  in  comparison  with  those 
of  other  and  greater  nations, — notwithstanding  the 
ever  ready  stiletto. 

"What  is  it  that  burns?"  asked  Tito  of  one  of 
the  newly  arrived,  indicating  the  cap  of  smoke  that 
topped  Vesuvius. 

"That!     That's  hell  burning." 

The  boy  considered  the  answer  frivolous. 

"How  dare  you  stray  so  far  from  home?"  he 
queried.  His  informant  looked  at  him  dubiously. 
"You  have  been  to  America?"  questioned  Tito. 

"Yes." 

"It  has  not  sharpened  your  wits.  Of  English 
you  know  something — a  leetle,  a  very  leetle,  eh? 
Talk  to  me  in  the  language  they  speak  in  Amer 
ica." 

"You  understand?"  queried  the  other  in  Eng 
lish. 

"Yaas,"  the  boy  affirmed,  unblushingly,  then 
continued :  "While  you  talk,  I  will,  with  this  pen 
cil,  make  on  paper  a  picture  of  your  face,  but 
much  better  favored  than  your  own;  and  as  you 
talk  more,  so  will  I  add  to  your  beauty — on  paper. 
Understand?"  (This  is  English.) 

"What  is  thy  picture  to  me?  I  could  not  buy  a 
plate  of  soup  with  it." 

"The  worth  is  not  in  your  ugly  face,  but  in  my 
drawing  of  it.  1  shall  make  of  it  what  your  Maker 

107 


TITO 

never  intended — something  that  your  master,  the 
devil,  would  disown.  Beauty  is  not  with  you.  I 
will  add  it.  Hold  your  head  to  one  side  so  the 
light  may  not  show  its  ugly  lines.  Now,  talk  to 
me  the  best  English  you  may  know." 

With  a  sure  touch  and  a  rapid  hand  Tito 
sketched  the  dark  visage  of  his  subject,  standing 
by  the  ship's  side,  against  a  background  of  cloud 
less  sky  to  which  the  coining  twilight  lent  a  deeper 
blue.  His  model  regarded  the  boy  with  respect 
and  some  degree  of  awe. 

"There,"  said  Tito,  handing  the  rough  sketch  to 
him,  "could  your  mirror  do  as  well  for  you,  then 
might  you  believe  in  the  miracles.  This  I  will  give 
you,  and  for  it  you  shall  talk  English  to  me  every 
day  till  we  come  to  America.  Tell  me  now  of  this 
New  York.  Is  it  like  Florence  or  Genoa?" 

"America  is  good  for  work,"  was  the  reply. 
"New  York  is  a  great  city,  and  rich!  But  to  live? 
Bah  !  They  know  not  how  to  live !  You  must  be 
of  the  government,  of  the  police,  then  everything 
comes  to  you.  What  doest  thou  there,  boy? 
Thou  wilt  work,  aye,  there  is  much  to  do,  but  thou 
must  pay  one-half  thou  wilt  earn  as  a  tribute." 

"To  whom?"  demanded  Tito  with  large-eyed 
interest. 

"To  the  police — to  whom  else?" 

"That  will  I  not,"  answered  the  boy,  stoutly. 
"They  shall  feed  me,  and  if  it  amuse  me,  I  shall 
draw  their  pictures  as  I  drew  yours.  These  pic 
tures  will  not  be  true,  but  they  will  please  them; 

1 08 


TITO 

and  they  shall  know  me  as  'Little  Devil/  for  I  love 
them  not.''  And  with  a  princely  wave  of  his  hand, 
he  terminated  his  audience  with  his  fellow  coun 
tryman,  who,  already,  treated  him  with  the  con 
sideration  that  his  youthful  arrogance  demanded. 

Gibraltar  had  become  a  memory.  The  coast  of 
Spain  had  died  into  a  hazy  mist  that  merged  with 
sky  and  sea,  and  the  Atlantic  welcomed  the  voy 
agers  with  heaving  bosom  and  threatening  mien. 
The  wind  blew,  and  huge  waves  boarded  the  ship 
and  swept  the  decks  from  bow  to  stern.  The  pas 
sengers,  all  but  one,  were  locked  below,  and,  as 
the  gale  increased,  prayed  and  shrieked  upon  their 
knees,  and  called  upon  the  Madonna  to  intercede 
with  the  High  Power,  to  preserve  them  from  the 
storm's  fury.  I  say  all  but  one  were  locked  below. 
That  one,  by  an  ingenuity  which  called  down  upon 
his  fair  head  the  wrath  of  the  officers,  had  eluded 
their  vigilance;  and  only  by  the  miraculous  hand 
of  Providence  had  he  escaped  death.  He  had  been 
picked  up  unconscious,  after  having  been  dashed 
against  the  ship's  rail,  and  was  conveyed  to  the 
first  cabin  saloon.  Here,  in  the  presence  of  a 
number  of  the  passengers  he  opened  his  eyes,  and, 
with  a  patronizing  smile,  demanded  how  he  came 
to  be  so  favored.  His  wet  hair,  clinging  to  his 
fair  forehead,  enlisted  the  admiration  of  the  pas 
sengers,  but  the  ship's  officer  was  unmoved. 

"  'Little  Devil,'  how  did  you  come  to  be  on 
deck?"  the  officer  demanded. 

Tito  smiled  sweetly.     He  ignored  the  question 


109 


TITO 

and  asked  calmly,  "How  comes  it  that  thou 
shouldst  call  me  by  my  name?  I  had  not  told 
thee." 

"Answer  me!"  A  subordinate  would  have 
quailed  before  the  officer's  tone. 

Tito,  undisturbed,  chuckled  gleefully.  He  did 
not  underestimate  the  look  of  interest  and  of  ad 
miration  on  the  faces  of  the  spectators.  "You  can 
guess  my  name,  then  shouldst  thou  know  that  I 
was  on  deck  to  see  that  everything  was  right 
Thou  mayest  have  observed  that  there  is  a  storm 
without  and  much  wind,  and  the  ship's  boats  are 
loose  on  their  davits.  Look  to  it,  that  they  are 
made  fast.  Wouldst  thou  have  me  tell  thee  more  ? 
If  it  pleases  thee,  I  will  return  to  the  hole  below. 
There  will  I  teach  the  cattle  to  pray  more  loudly. 
The  Madonna  cannot  hear  with  the  storm." 

"You  little  fiend,  I  will  report  you  to  the  cap 
tain." 

"I  can  save  thee  that  trouble.  When  the  wind 
dies,  I  shall  go  on  to  the  bridge.  I  think  it  will 
please  me." 

"What  is  your  name?"  This  from  a  sympa 
thetic  passenger. 

"Does  not  my  face  tell  thee?  Angioletto — Tito, 
for  short.  If  neither  name  pleases  thee,  ask  him  of 
the  gold  braid  and  brassy  tongue.  It  clangs  like 
a  bell — that  the  sheep  wear.  He  had  wit  enough 
to  guess  truly — 'Little  Devil.'  Now  shall  I  go.  I 
can  hear  them  praying  even  here.  I  would  join 
them." 


no 


TITO 

The  intervention  of  the  passengers  appeased  the 
officer's  wrath,  and  Tito  was  led  away  to  the  steer 
age,  his  laugh,  which  the  roar  of  the  storm  could 
not  wholly  drown,  dying  into  a  musical  echo. 

The  storm  spent  its  force  and  died  into  fretful 
complaining,  and  the  wind  and  the  sea  agreed  that 
calm  should  reign.  The  sun,  with  a  mighty  effort, 
dissolved  the  gloom;  and  those  below,  assured  that 
life  was  yet  for  them,  crept  sheepishly  to  the  deck, 
and  forgot  the  danger  that  had  awakened  their 
lusty  religious  fervor.  From  a  night  of  storm  and 
prayer  they  turned  to  the  joy  of  basking  in  the 
warm  sun ;  and  as  far  as  their  purses  and  the  rules 
of  the  ship  would  admit,  celebrated  their  deliver 
ance  in  man)'-  and  devious  ways — mostly  with  a 
double  allowance  of  Italian  wine. 

But  all  was  not  pleasure  for  Tito.  In  the  quiet 
of  the  night,  when  the  mid-ocean  stillness  held 
sway,  and  the  spell  of  limitless  space  was  upon 
him,  he  stood  by  the  rail  in  a  secluded  spot,  watch 
ing  the  moonbeams  dance  on  the  water.  At  these 
moments  he  thought  long  and  seriously  of  the 
land  he  was  nearing,  and  the  life  before  him  that 
would  make  or  mar  his  future.  With  all  his  scof 
fing  disregard  for  the  material  side  of  life,  he  real 
ized  that  his  prospects  were  by  no  means  bright. 
Exuberance  of  spirit  and  perfect  health  were  much, 
but  he  did  not  lose  sight  of  what  he  was  to  face,  of 
what  he  was  to  overcome — alone,  almost  penniless, 
his  only  stock  in  trade  indomitable  pluck,  and  a 
determination  to  overcome  all  obstacles  in  the  mis- 


ITI 


TITO 

sion  before  him,  for  the  fact  that  he  had  a  purpose 
in  life — to  find  his  father — was  fixed  and  unalter 
able.  What  steps  he  should  take  to  that  end,  he 
had  never  considered.  Opportunity  would  guide 
him — the  result,  should  he  be  successful,  he  had 
never  questioned.  Fate  had  willed  to  him  a  mis 
sion,  terrible  in  its  working  out,  and  horrible  in  its 
fixity  of  purpose, — this  he  would  accomplish. 

He  was  now  of  an  age  when  his  reason  should 
hav^e  called  a  halt;  when  possible  consequences, 
should  his  quest  for  his  father  be  successful,  would 
entail  punishment  that  should  turn  him  from  his 
purpose;  but  no  thought  for  himself  or  his  safety 
crossed  his  mind.  The  old  woman  had  sown  the 
seed  of  hate  and  revenge  deep  and  well.  But  one 
idea  had  taken  possession  of  him ;  and  that,  should 
he  succeed,  meant  to  him  the  end  of  all. 

He  had  been  softly  chanting  one  of  the  songs  of 
his  boyhood ;  then,  for  some  moments,  he  watched 
the  moonbeams  dance  across  the  pathway  of  light, 
while  the  water  on  the  side  of  the  vessel  kept  time 
to  the  throb  of  the  wheel.  The  hours  went  by. 
Below  they  slept;  and  the  whispering  of  the  sea 
was  the  only  sound  that  disturbed  his  thoughts. 
In  memory  he  was  wandering  again  through  the 
woods  and  the  green  fields  of  his  own  Tuscany. 
He  felt  the  cool  of  the  water  as,  sitting  on  the  bank 
of  the  Arno,  he  dangled  his  bare  feet  in  the  stream, 
and  listened  to  the  birds  and  the  bees  with  a  thrill 
of  delight.  He  fought  again  his  childish  battles,  and 
his  nerves,  even  then,  tingled  with  the  shame  that 


112 


TITO 

had  been  heaped  upon  him.  The  old  woman's 
rasping  tones  rang  in  his  ears,  and  the  splash  of 
the  water  on  the  prow  of  the  ship  seemed  an  echo 
of  her  voice.  ''Remember  thy  oath,  my  Tito. 
Thou  wilt  not  forget  what  they  call  thee, — 'Piccolo 
d'Ignotif  Thou  wilt  not  forget?  I,  too,  shall 
go  to  America,  and  see  him  when  his  own  son 
has  struck  him,  aye,  even  to  death."  And  her 
laugh  seemed  to  come  from  the  depths  of  the 
funnels  of  the  ship,  and  was  lost  in  despairing  ca 
dences  in  the  rigging  above.  "Thou  shalt  know, 
my  Tito/'  continued  the  voice  in  his  ears,  "thou 
shalt  know — when  the  time  comes:  but  not  now, 
not  now."  The  sighing  breezes  picked  up  the 
ghostly  refrain  and  bore  it  seaward.  "He  is  rich," 
came  the  voice  again,  "as  rich  as  a  noble;  and  he 
would  disown  thee,  my  Tito.  Is  thy  blood  of 
water?  Remember  thy  mother!  I  hated  him,  not 
less  than  he  hated  me.  And  thou  hast  his  accursed 
fair  skin.  Could  I  flay  it  from  thee,  boy,  would  I 
not  do  it?  But  by  it  he  shall  know  thee  when  thou 
shalt  stand  before  him.  Ha,  ha,  ha." 

Was  it  the  voice  of  a  siren  that  seemed  to  laugh 
in  his  ears,  or  was  it  a  memory  that  would  not  die? 
His  blood  ran  cold,  for  the  sound  seemed  to  come 
from  the  sea,  and  the  old  woman's  uncanny  fea 
tures  rose  from  the  shadow  cast  by  the  hull  of  the 
steamer, — the  sunken  eyes  glowing  in  their  watery 
sockets.  The  sight  and  the  sound  froze  his  blood, 
and  the  watchman's  call  roused  him  from  his 
lethargy  of  fear. 


TITO 

Again  the  voice:  "Thou  wilt  look  for  him 
among  the  rich,  my  Tito,  by  the  great  park,  for  I 
have  followed  him  to  his  very  door.  Did  he  think 
he  could  hide  from  me?  Ha,  ha, — and  we  were  so 
happy,  we  two,  so  happy." 

The  moon  sank  slowly  and  dipped  into  the  sea, 
and  darkness  fell  quickly  over  the  watery  course. 
With  a  sigh  the  boy  went  below,  and  the  wind 
whispered  softly  through  the  rigging. 


114 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

TEN  years  had  passed,  and  time  had  not  dealt 
lightly  with  Vanburg.  His  hair  was  touched 
with  silver,  and  each  succeeding  year  had 
added  a  wrinkle  or  line  to  his  face,  which  was 
prematurely  aged.  He  was  not  the  Vanburg 
whom  we  have  known — nearly  every  feature 
seemed  to  have  undergone  a  change,  and  only  his 
eyes,  and  his  fine  physique,  told  that  the  wreck 
was  not  yet  complete.  Dissipation  had  attacked 
his  body,  but  his  mind,  speaking  through  his  eyes, 
proclaimed  that  it  had  withstood  the  ravages  of 
the  wasted  years.  His  face  had  assumed  a  gross- 
ness  that  had  changed  his  features  into  such  that 
his  friends  would,  with  difficulty,  have  recognized. 
He  wore  a  full,  croppy  beard  which  completely 
disguised  his  chin  and  mouth,  and  to  former  ac 
quaintances,  should  they  not  hear  his  voice,  he 
would  have  passed  as  a  stranger.  But  apart  from 
an  added  fulness,  his  voice  was  that  of  Vanburg 
the  clubman,  the  banker,  the  aristocrat.  When 
not  under  the  influence  of  drink,  his  eyes  laughed 
with  the  same  engaging  frankness,  and  his  smile 
was  as  a  remembrance,  a  glimmer  of  his  old  self, 
a  flashlight  through  a  past  that  was  a  living  night 
mare,  for  he  had  lived  through  years  of  unspeak 
able  torment. 


TITO 

After  Vanburg's  rupture  with  his  father  and  his 
resignation  from  his  club,  his  social  world  saw  him 
no  more.  He  could  have  withstood  his  father's 
taunts  because  of  his  marriage,  but  his  honesty  had 
been  questioned,  his  honor  assailed,  and  he  re 
nounced  his  social  world  and  all  past  associations. 
For  him  there  was  no  intermediate  course  and  he 
flung  himself  madly  into  a  whirl  of  excesses.  The 
nature  of  the  ordinary  man,  under  a  charge  as 
unjust  and  unfounded  as  Vanburg  had  faced, 
would  have  become  embittered,  but  after  the  first 
sting  had  passed  his  old  time  smile  returned.  But 
his  laugh  betrayed  the  cynicism  of  one  who  has 
lost  faith  in  humankind. 

The  principal  and  income  from  property  in  his 
own  name  lasted  but  two  years ;  what  was  left  was 
interest,  payable  monthly,  from  a  fund  beyond  his 
control.  When  he  reached  the  end  of  his 
private  fortune  he  drifted  about  the  country 
from  town  to  city,  until,  at  last,  he  returned 
to  New  York,  where  he  lived,  while  his  monthly 
income  lasted,  in  the  oblivion  of  drink.  After  he 
had  broken  off  his  social  and  family  ties,  there  had 
been  no  gradual  descent,  for  he  had  plunged  to 
the  bottom,  to  the  lowest  stratum  of  dissipation. 

Yet  through  it  all,  underneath  the  veneer,  the 
outward  semblance  of  the  man,  lost  to  all  sense  of 
pride,  even  of  decency,  there  still  remained  the 
sunny  disposition,  the  considerate  gentleness,  the 
cool  reserve,  the  lion-heartedness  of  the  Horace 
Vanburg  that  had  made  him,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
dead  Bettina,  a  god.  Even  those  with  whom  he 

116 


TITO 

daily  fraternized, — men  whose  mental  capacity  and 
feelings  were  as  those  of  beasts — paid  him  the 
tribute  of  respect  that  unquestioned  integrity  and 
undoubted  courage  commanded.  Instinct  taught 
them  that  he  was  not  of  their  kind,  and  his  easy 
familiarity  had  never  entirely  broken  down  the 
social  barriers  which  they  were  discerning  enough 
to  realize  existed. 

It  was  late  afternoon  and  the  warmth  of  an 
April  day  was  still  in  the  air ;  the  sun's  rays  leaped 
over  the  towering  buildings  and  danced  on  the 
water  of  the  East  River  to  the  Brooklyn  side. 
Down-town  the  activity  of  the  day  was  merging 
into  the  quiet  of  early  evening.  A  dark,  turbulent 
stream  of  humanity  was  moving  in  mighty  pro 
cession  across  the  bridge,  and  at  the  entrance  of 
the  East  River  ferries,  human  vortexes  converged. 

Vanburg,  in  the  garb  of  a  longshoreman,  had 
just  stepped  from  one  of  the  wharves  and,  accom 
panied  by  McGlennon,  walked  up  South  Street. 
Entering  a  saloon,  they  took  seats  at  one  of  the 
tables,  and  ordered  refreshments. 

"Mack,"  said  Vanburg,  jocularly,  "let  us  make 
an  accounting  of  our  assets.  You  are,  to  my  best 
knowledge  and  belief,  broke." 

"Right  you  are,"  replied  McGlennon,  "and 
Saturday's  three  days  off." 

"True,"  said  Vanburg.  "To  me  the  gods  have 
been  most  kind,  for  I  boast  of  two  whole  Ameri 
can  dollars — in  silver.  These,  my  friend,  repre 
sent  my  measure  of  ability  for  lifting  boxes  onto 
a  truck,  and  pushing  them  from  the  deck  of  the 

117 


TITO 

steamer  to  the  wharf.  That  is  a  profession  which 
you  were  good  enough  to  teach  me.  Gratitude 
prompts  me  to  tender  you  one-half  my  capital — 
as  a  loan." 

His  companion  laughed.  "I'll  not  refuse;  but 
you—" 

"But  I?  You  forget  that  to-morrow  I  revel  in 
the  princely  sum  of  fifty  dollars — a  monthly  pit 
tance  I  am  not  above  accepting.  That  means  un 
licensed  luxury  for  four  whole  days,  the  where 
withal  to  woo  forgetfulness  and — " 

"Twenty-six  days  of  hell,"  interrupted  his  com 
panion. 

"No,  not  quite  that — simply  days  of  pushing 
boxes,  when  we  have  work,  and  the  inclination  to 
do  it." 

"Kent,  you're  a fool." 

"My  dear  McGlennon,  you  have  told  me  that 
often.  Time,  I  trust,  will  change  your  views — and 
furnish  you  with  a  more  elegant  appellation — 
human  ingenuity  could  not  invent  a  truer  one. 
On  a  painfully  limited  capital  you  will  observe,  we 
are  paying  ten  cents  for  what  can  be  had  at 
Death  House  Joe's  for  five.  When  I  cannot  enjoy 
the  best,  experience  has  taught  me  that  the  next 
best  is  the  worst.  Joe's  is  superlatively  bad — its 
effect  quick  and  lasting." 

McGlennon  laughed.  He  looked  not  a  day 
older  than  when  he  had  shaken  Vanburg's  hand 
upon  his  first  visit  to  his  home  in  company  with 
Madge  Hollander  and  her  brother.  He  had  seen 
much  of  Vanburg  during:  the  past  two  years,  but 

118 


TITO 

neither  referred  to  the  time  when  they  were  both 
men  and  gentlemen.  They  met  daily,  for  there 
was  much  in  common  in  their  lives;  but  the  older 
man  still  had  the  tie  of  his  daughter's  love  to  bind 
him  to  a  life  of  indifferent  respectability,  while 
Vanburg  had  long  since  abandoned  all  restraining 
influence.  A  further  bond  of  comradeship  was  the 
knowledge,  which  each  possessed,  that  the  other 
was  of  gentle  birth ;  for  both  had  been  educated  to 
a  degree  that  fitted  them  for  any  social  plane  they 
might  have  chosen.  Only  at  intervals  did  either 
man  refer  to  his  past  life — Vanburg  but  seldom, 
and  then  in  a  spirit  of  jocundity;  the  other,  in 
serious  moments  —  involuntarily  suggesting  the 
thought  that  regret  was  yet  keenly  alive. 

They  walked  slowly,  laughing  at  their  experi 
ences  of  the  day,  Vanburg,  with  evident  enjoy 
ment,  relating  the  methods  by  which,  because  of 
his  inexperience,  he  had  been  forced  to  shoulder  a 
double  burden  of  the  hardest  work.  Entering  a 
resort  on  the  East  Side  near  the  Bowery  they 
seated  themselves  at  one  of  the  tables. 

In  addition  to  regular  customers  who  were  com 
ing  and  going,  there  were  six  or  eight  loungers 
standing  about  the  place  waiting  an  invitation  to 
drink,  a  possibility  sufficiently  remote  to  cause 
them  to  watch  closely  those  who  incautiously  dis 
played  any  amount  of  money.  Their  faces  bore 
but  slight  resemblance  to  those  of  human  beings; 
and  their  vicious  tendencies,  controlled  only  by  a 
wholesome  fear  of  the  law,  at  times  turned  them 
into  human  brutes.  Their  shifting  glances  wan- 

119 


TITO 

dered  about  the  room,  and,  as  Vanbitrg  and  his 
companion  entered,  a  hush  followed.  Being  well 
known,  both  men  were  treated  with  a  respect  born 
of  fear. 

In  the  rear  of  the  room  one  of  the  patrons,  the 
most  villainous  looking  of  the  gang,  indicating 
Vanburg  with  a  nod  of  his  head,  addressed  the 
loungers  near  him. 

"Yer  shud  a  seen  'm  th'  other  night!  'Micky  de 
Pinch'  was  getting  in  his  work  on  a  guy  wid  a 
load.  Micky  had  his  hand  in  de  bloke's  pocket  an' 
had  connected  wid  de  roll.  He  wus  a  drawin'  it 
as  slick  as  yer  hand  sheds  a  silk  glove,  when  his 
'giblets'  over  there  gits  on.  Well,  what  does  he  do 
but  jest  grabs  Micky  by  the  nap'  of  th'  neck,  and 
he  didn't  do  a  t'ing  but  slam  him  against  th'  per- 
tition,  an'  then  laid  'de  Pinch'  flat  on  'is  back.  Say ! 
It  jest  made  de  fountain  start  in  me  glimmers  ter 
see  Micky  drop  de  roll.  Now  yer  know  'de  Pinch' 
can  do  a  good  five-minute  turn  wid  'is  fists,  an'  I 
t'ought  there  wus  somethin'  a  comin'  ter  his 
Jokers  over  there.  Well,  'Micky'  looked  'im  over, 
an'  'pon  me  word!  would  yer  believe  it! — out 
'Micky'  walks.  Nary  a  word.  Two  months  afore 
'de  Pinch'  was  goin'  tru  an  'Easy  Thing'  when  his 
giblets  takes  th'  long  green  from  'Micky'  an'  gives 
it  back  to  de  find.  'Micky'  couldn't  open  his 
blinkers  fer  two  days.  Oh,  he's  a  peach !  He's 
de  real  t'ing,  he  is !' ' 

The  two  men,  meantime,  had  drunk  deeply,  and 
their  good  nature  expanded.  They  talked  of 

120 


TITO 

their  varying  experiences,  and  of  times  when  good 
fortune  had  seemed  to  pass  them,  without  even  an 
indication  that  it  would  ever  return.  McGlennon, 
contrary  to  his  usual  custom,  was  in  a  reminiscent 
mood,  and  for  the  first  time  during  their  intimacy, 
which  dated  back  two  years,  spoke  of  his  past  life. 
Vanburg  listened  to  the  man,  who,  under  the  influ 
ence  of  drink,  referred  to  times  the  memory  of 
which  lent  refinement  to  his  language  and  the 
tones  of  his  voice,  even  elegance  of  manner  and 
diction,  in  striking  contrast  with  his  present  ap 
pearance  and  surroundings.  He  knew  Vanburg 
only  as  one  whom  chance  had  thrown  in  his  way, 
and  in  whom  he  recognized  a  kindred  spirit ;  for 
Vanburg  had  never  enlightened  him  of  the  visit  to 
his  home. 

"It  was  after  my  marriage,"  McGlennon  was 
saying,  "that  life  at  home  became  unbearable.  I 
was  the  elder  of  two  brothers;  the  estate  was  not 
entailed — I  was  cut  off  with  the  proverbial  shilling. 
I  was  told  that  J  could  contest  the  will:  more,  I 
was  assured  by  the  best  legal  authority  in  Scot 
land  that  I  could  break  it,  but  I  would  not  consent 
to  the  attempt  being  made.  Then  I  was  left  alone 
with  my  little  girl — we  came  to  America.  There 
is  nothing  left  to  tell.  I  joined  company  with 
drink,  and,"  he  laughed,  "I  have  never  deserted 
the  jade — except  when  I  hadn't  the  price  to  woo 
her." 

"The  jade  has  used  you  kindly,"  said  Vanburg, 
"you  appear  not  a  day  older  that  when  I  first  met 
you." 

121 


TITO 

"Two  years  ago  this  month.  You  asked  me  to 
take  a  drink.  I  remember  it  well,  for  I  needed  it." 

"And  that  is  what  you  recall  as  our  first  meet- 
ing?" 

"Yes,"  answered  McGlennon. 

Vanburg  smiled.  "Go  back  nine  years,"  he 
said,  "you  lived  in  Shadow  Alley." 

"Yes,"  the  other  answered. 

"And  your  daughter  was  then  about  eight  years 
old,  frail,  and  pretty — 'Bill'  you  called  her." 

McGlennon  looked  surprised.  He  did  not  an 
swer,  but  listened  expectantly. 

"You  remember  one  day  when,  having  drunk 
more  than  was  good  for  you,  you  returned  home 
to  find  a  lady  and  two  gentlemen  in  the  house?" 

"Yes,"  said  McGlennon  eagerly,  "yes,  and  one 
of  the  gentlemen  offered  me  money." 

"And  you  were  foolish  enough  not  to  accept  it," 
laughed  Vanburg. 

"No,  I  would  do  the  same  to-day;  but  how  do 
you  know  all  this  ?  Who  told  you  ?" 

Vanburg  laughed.  "You  said  when  you  refused 
the  money  that  you  wanted  to  meet  the  man  again. 
Tell  me  why?" 

"Though  I  don't  know  how  you  came  by  the 
information,  I'll  tell  you.  I  had  a  feeling,  some 
how,  I  don't  know  why,  that  the  young  fellow  was 
wild,  and  I  wanted  to  talk  to  him,  to  warn  him. 
You  see  I  knew  where  drink  could  land  a  man. 
Look  about  you,"  he  laughed,  "here  we  are !  Well, 
I  took  a  liking  to  the  young  fellow — but  never  saw 
him  again." 

122 


TITO 

"Would  you  know  him  if  you  should  see  him?" 
asked  Vanburg. 

"Yes,  he  was  of  your  build,  with  a  smooth  face, 
but  a  fine  looking  young  man." 

Vanburg  smiled  but  did  not  reply.  He  knew 
Madge  Hollander  still  visited  McGlennon's  home 
and,  if  no  other  reason  existed,  that  one  fact  was 
sufficient  to  decide  him  to  keep  his  identity  a  secret. 
Nine  years  had  elapsed  from  the  time  of  their  first 
encounter  until  the  two  men  again  met ;  and  Van 
burg  had  remained  silent  as  to  his  former  friends, 
guarding  such  information  as  would  disclose  his 
identity. 

The  evening  was  well  advanced  before  they  left 
the  place  and,  turning  into  the  Bowery,  pro 
ceeded  uptown.  They  walked  erect,  and  it  was 
only  by  an  excess  of  good  nature,  a  loquacious 
tendency,  that  their  condition  would  suggest  that 
they  were  not  entirely  sober. 

They  came  to  Madison  Square,  and  crossing 
there,  turned  up  Fifth  Avenue.  Vanburg  was 
seldom  drawn  to  this  former  familiar  locality,  but 
a  longing  to  again  visit  old-time  scenes  came  over 
him  with  a  force  he  could  not  resist.  They  had 
gone  on  without  remark  as  to  their  destination, 
for  neither  of  the  men  had  an  intention  of  going 
home.  Often  when  Vanburg's  funds  were  low, 
and  he  had  to  choose  between  a  bed  or  spending 
his  last  few  cents  for  a  drink,  he  accepted  the  latter 
alternative;  for  walking  the  streets  through  the 
long  night  gave  him  no  uneasiness.  When  the 
weather  made  these  voluntary  vigils  irksome,  he 

123 


TITO 

had  recourse  to  the  rear  rooms  of  the  saloons  in  the 
worst  section  of  the  city,  where,  in  the  company 
of  thugs  and  thieves  of  the  lowest  cast,  he  spent 
the  hours  until  morning,  wringing  human  philoso 
phy  from  lives  of  squalor  and  vice.  Imperturbable 
and  uncomplaining,  he  did  not  fail  to  grasp  the 
humorous  side  of  such  existence;  and  their  stolid 
indifference  to  hardship  and  ill-luck  he  viewed  with 
something  akin  to  respect.  He  was  always  con 
scious  that  his  lot  in  life  was  of  his  own  making — 
the  result  of  his  own  acts,  and  he  was  satisfied  to 
take  what  came  to  him,  and  smile  at  the  worst. 
Looked  upon  with  some  degree  of  wonder  by 
those  who  had  the  capacity  to  study  him  and  made 
the  effort,  he  balked  their  curiosity,  their  desire, 
to  know  who  and  what  he  was,  for  his  smile,  his 
mask-like  expression,  and  a  temper  which  no  one, 
under  any  circumstances,  had  ever  seen  disturbed, 
baffled  even  those  whose  profession  it  was  to  read 
human  faces  and  human  weaknesses.  His  pres 
ence  was  a  surety  for  good  order  and  fair  dealing, 
and  an  angry  flash  from  his  eyes — rarely  seen — 
spoke  a  language  which  those  who  knew  him  un 
derstood  and  respected.  His  word  went  unques 
tioned,  and  among  those  who  had  reason  to  fear 
the  law.  carried  with  it  a  weight  that  any  judge 
might  envy. 

Walking  leisurely  up  the  avenue,  the  two  men 
paused  before  a  brilliantly  lighted  building.  The 
uncontrollable  desire  to  visit  scenes  of  old  asso 
ciations,  which  in  the  human  race,  from  king  to 
criminal,  is  irresistible,  had  led  Vanburg  before 

124 


TITO 

the  very  door  he  had  often  entered — into  the  very 
shadow  of  the  building,  in  the  rooms  of  which  he 
had  once  been  the  equal  of  any  man  who  crossed 
the  threshold. 

"There,"  said  Vanburg,  indicating  the  club 
house  with  a  movement  of  his  head — "there,  the 
man  who  came  to  your  house  once  was  an  hon 
ored  member.  I  knew  him  well — better  perhaps, 
than  any  living  being.  It  seems  but  yesterday 
that  he,  too,  mounted  those  very  steps,  as  those 
whom  we  now  see  are  entering.  There  he  had 
the  same  desires,  and,  at  one  time,  the  same  ambi 
tions  that  they  now  feel,  until  Fate  interfered  with 
his  plan  of  life,  and  he  surrendered,. without  even 
an  effort,  to  influences  which  blotted  out  every 
semblance  of  his  birthright." 

"You  knew  him  well,"  said  his  companion, 
"then  you  were  of  his  class — of  his  life?" 

"Yes,  I  knew  him  as  no  other  knew  him.  I 
know  him  as  no  other  can  or  will.  You  saw  him 
once,  but  even  then  he  was  wandering  on  the 
brink  of  the  confines,  in  whose  depths  he  has  found 
a  living  hell." 

A  canvas  canopy  had  been  raised  from  the  street 
curb  to  the  entrance,  before  which  carriages 
stopped,  and  the  occupants — many  of  them  ladies, 
alighted  and  entered  the  building.  From  where 
the  men  were  standing,  they  could  see  the  faces 
of  those  who  passed  into  the  brilliantly  lighted  ves 
tibule. 

"Ladies'   night,"   said   Vanburg,   "a  public  re- 


125 


TITO 

ception."    Grasping  the  arm  of  his  companion,  he 
said  earnestly: 

"Yon  recognize  that  lady  who  is  just  going  in 
with  the  tall  gentleman?" 

McGlennon  looked  eagerly.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "it 
is  the  one  who  comes  to  see  Bill,  my  daughter,  and 
once  the  gentleman  you  speak  of  came  with  her — 
he  who  offered  me  the  money.  What  of  him  ?" 

"He  is  dead,"  replied  Vanburg,  "to  all  intents 
and  purposes,  dead.  Yet  he  lives,  if  you  can  call  it 
living,  for  his  hope  in  life  is  blotted  out,  and  noth 
ing  remains  but  an  existence  that  is  a  torment. 
He  was  married,  and  his  wife — "  he  caught  his 
breath  sharply  and  his  voice  was  husky  as  he  con 
tinued — "enough  that  he  loved  her  as  woman  was 
never  loved,  and  he  looked  forward  to  the  birth  of 
his  child — my  God!  He  dreamed  of  holding  it  in 
his  arms,  of  listening  to  its  voice,  as  a  fulfilment  of 
all  that  Heaven  could  give.  But  Fate,  with  a  two- 
edged  sword,  must  strike — the  child  was  born 
dead,  and  its  mother  gave  her  life  at  its  birth.  He 
had  his  struggle,  but  the  future,  for  him,  was  a 
blank — in  a  night,  hope  and  ambition  withered, 
and  he  surrendered  to  influences  which  he  made 
no  effort  to  combat.  With  wife  and  child  gone, 
nothing  remained ;  and  now, — now  he  is  waiting 
the  pleasure  of  the  executioner.  He,  the  yellow 
devil,  toys  with  him,  giving  him  moments  of  mad 
delirium,  forgetfulness,  that  the  mental  torture 
may  be  the  more  exquisite.  Pity  is  not  for  him, 
my  friend,  for  he  is  not  worthy.  None  know  that 
better  than  he.  If  the  child  had  only  lived — " 

126 


TITO 

The  words  seemed  to  die  on  his  lips,  and  silence 
followed.  McGlennon  was  about  to  speak. 

"Come,"  interrupted  Vanburg,  "Death  House 
Joe  cures  all  diseases  of  the  mind,  and  we  have  a 
dollar  left.  That,  my  friend,  means  a  night  of  ob 
livion  and — " 

"And  to-morrow— 

"To-morrow  shall  be  considered  when  it  comes. 
It  would  be  an  impertinence  to  anticipate  it." 

Silently  they  went  back  as  they  had  come. 


127 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

TITO'S  arrival  in  New  York  had  been  marked 
by  events  which,  in  one  so  young, — one  of  a 
sensitive,  imaginative  disposition,  made  an 
impression  not  easily  forgotten  or  erased.  With 
little  or  no  knowledge  of  English,  no  friends,  and 
only  such  acquaintances  as  he  had  made  on  ship 
board,  the  prospect  before  him  was  not  alluring, 
and  to  one  less  self-reliant  it  would  have  been  dis 
heartening.  He  was  met  on  all  sides  by  a  disdain 
ful  lack  of  interest.  No  one  seemed  to  know  or 
care  who  he  was,  whence  he  had  come,  whither  he 
was  going;  if  he  had  a  purpose  or  a  mission  in  life, 
that  was  his  own  affair,  and  no  one  appeared  con 
cerned  in  him,  or  took  cognizance  of  the  fact  that 
he  existed.  His  last  penny  gone,  he  looked  the 
world  in  the  face,  and  demanded  of  it  the  living 
that  it  owed  him;  but  none  heard,  or  if  one  did, 
no  one  took  the  trouble  to  heed.  Then  he 
laughed.  It  was  the  old  mirthful,  ringing,  youth 
ful  laugh  with  just  a  shade  of  the  world's  bitter 
ness — which  is  not  good  to  hear  from  one  so 
young. 

But  he  was  learning  that  the  world  does  not 
consider  those  who  have  nothing  with  which  to 
woo  its  favor:  he  was  receiving  his  first  lesson  in 
the  great  school  of  experience,  whose  post-gradu- 

128 


TITO 

ates  have  left  their  whitened  bones  scattered  on  the 
highway  of  life.  Then  he  grew  disdainful.  He 
had  no  marked  fondness  for  an  empty  stomach, 
and  it  had  become  a  chronic  complaint;  a  bed,  all 
too  soon,  became  an  almost  forgotten  luxury ;  his 
clothing  was  shabby,  even  ragged,  and  his  toes 
peeped  through  his  well  worn  shoes.  Watching 
the  boys  of  his  own  age  selling  papers  on  the 
street,  regarding  them,  meanwhile,  with  unwhole 
some  scorn,  he  \vondered  if  he,  too,  would  be 
crying  the  news.  They  amused  him,  and,  laugh 
ing  riotously,  in  broken  English  he  loftily  de 
manded  of  one  his  bundle  of  papers,  that  he  might 
sell  them  for  him,  incidentally  assuring  the  sur 
prised  urchin  that  he  would  teach  him  the  art  of 
his  trade.  The  young  news  — vender,  partly 
through  jest,  mostly  in  obedience  to  the  haughty 
demand,  surrendered  his  wares  to  the  arrogant 
stranger — taking  care  to  keep  the  boastful  Tito 
within  arm's  reach,  should  he  have  designs  on  his 
stock  in  trade — and  the  patronizing  tones  of  the 
newcomer's  voice  changed  to  one  of  confident  se 
ductiveness. 

"Paper,  sir?"  His  voice  rose  in  a  musical 
cadence,  supplemented  by  a  few  bars  of  a  popular 
song,  while  his  eyes  laughed  with  mischievous  glee, 
and  his  smiling  countenance,  with  a  fair  beauty 
that  was  magnetic  in  its  confiding  candor,  drew  a 
second  look,  an  answering  smile,  and  the  papers 
went  as  fast  as  he  could  hand  them  to  eager  pur 
chasers.  The  boy  condescendingly  smiled  upon 
his  customers,  and  they  departed  well  pleased,  for 

129 


TITO 

all  the  world  is  irresistibly  drawn  to  those  who  woo 
it  with  a  laugh. 

The  last  paper  gone,  he  turned  the  money  over 
to  its  owner,  scornfully  refusing  to  divide  the  prof 
its;  then,  with  head  high,  sauntered  off  humming 
the  tune  with  which  he  had  coaxed  the  pennies 
from  the  admiring  crowd.  Though  he  scorned  to 
take  his  share  of  the  profits,  he  was  hungry,  and, 
with  a  confident  stride,  entered  a  restaurant  in  the 
Italian  settlement  near  Bleecker  Street,  on  the 
West  Side.  There  were  fifty  or  more  of  his  own 
countrymen  in  the  room,  and  he  looked  around 
with  an  air  which  said  plainly  that,  if  they  duly 
appreciated  the  good  fortune  that  was  theirs,  he 
might  consider  them  worthy  of  his  distinguished 
company. 

"I  would  eat,"  he  said  blandly  to  the  proprietor, 
"for  which  I  will  singf." 

"You  may  eat,"  replied  that  prosaic  individual, 
"but  you  will  pay." 

He  regarded  Tito  with  a  doubting  eye.  He  re 
ceived  in  return  a  condescending  stare. 

"If  I  sing  not  well,  then  will  I  not  eat — aye,  even 
though  thou  give  it  me." 

"I  like  your  nerve,  boy;  sing  on!" 

Tito  smiled.  He  knew,  in  the  glance  with  which 
he  swept  the  room,  by  the  faces  before  him,  to 
whom  he  was  to  sing — to  a  man  they  were  of  the 
Italian  peasant  class,  and  he  sang  a  folk-song  dear 
to  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen — sang  it  with 
pathos,  expression,  and  in  tones  of  marvelous  pur 
ity.  When  he  began,  the  clatter  of  tongues  and 

130 


TITO 

of  dishes  ceased,  and  he  ended  in  a  silence  that  was 
a  tribute  to  his  art.  There  followed  a  demonstra 
tion  that  an  artist  might  envy;  but  Tito  smiled 
condescendingly  and  addressed  the  proprietor, 
who  stood  nodding  his  approval. 

"Do  I  eat?"  queried  Tito,  with  a  merry  twinkle 
in  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  and  well,  with  wine." 

But  a  dinner  was  not  all,  for  a  handful  of  coin 
was  placed  before  him,  assuring  a  week  of  good 
living. 

He  rarely  resorted  to  this  method  of  earning 
money — only  when  his  last  penny  was  gone,  and 
then  more  from  a  feeling  of  boyish  bravado  than 
for  the  money  he  invariably  received.  He  had  not 
lost  sight  of  the  object  of  his  coming,  and  many  a 
night,  when  without  food,  and  compelled  to  walk 
the  streets  or  sit  in  one  of  the  parks,  he  remem 
bered  him  whom  he  sought;  the  hardships  which 
he  himself  endured  kept  alive  the  flame  of  hate. 
The  clays  and  the  nights  bred  within  him  feelings 
that  rankled  in  his  heart,  filling  him  with  an  over 
powering  desire  to  find  the  father  who  was  the 
cause  of  his  ill-spent  youth;  for  contact  with  the 
world  had  awakened  him  to  the  fact  that,  so  far, 
his  life  had  been  wasted.  But  the  sunny  disposi 
tion,  the  light-heartedness,  the  buoyancy  of  youth 
could  not  be  crushed,  and  through  good  or  bad 
fortune,  foul  or  fair  weather,  he  refused  to  view 
life  except  through  the  rose-tinted  lens  of  youth, 
and  he  laughed  at  the  ill  luck  that  seemed  to  pur 
sue  him,  accepting  as  his  right  such  good  fortune 


TITO 

as  came  his  way.  Tito  was  endowed  with  an  un 
derstanding  of  men  and  things  that,  in  one  so 
young,  one  who  had  received  no  education,  whose 
moral  and  mental  training  had  been  left  for  chance 
to  direct,  was  remarkable,  almost  supernatural. 
Pie  was  a  keen  observer,  suspicious  of  imposition, 
chary  of  bestowing  confidence,  yet  heroic  in  his. 
ideal  of  right,  and  with  a  romantic  standard  of  the 
sacredness  of  friendship  which  was  founded  on 
justice  that  was  inborn. 

The  second  month  after  his  arrival,  his  finer  in 
stincts,  and  his  ignorance  of  the  ways  of  the  police, 
the  uncrowned  kings  of  the  Metropolis,  nearly  got 
him  into  serious  difficulty.  Sitting  in  Washington 
Park  in  the  early  evening,  he  was  sketching  some 
of  the  human  wrecks  sitting  on  the  benches.  Op 
posite  him  was  an  old  man  with  a  face  blanched, 
wrinkled,  emaciated,  and  hair  whose  whiteness 
should  have  been  his  shield  against  abuse.  Tito 
had  just  completed  his  sketch  of  the  forlorn  crea 
ture,  when  an  officer,  observing  that  the  old  man 
nodded  in  sleep,  first  striking  him  on  the  feet  with 
his  club,  grasped  him  by  the  collar  and  sent  him 
reeling  along  the  walk  with  such  force  that  he  fell 
to  the  pavement,  where  he  lay  stunned  and  bleed 
ing,  unable  to  rise. 

On  the  instant  the  boy  rushed  forward,  his  eyes 
blazing,  his  face  scarlet,  all  the  fierceness  of  his 
nature  roused  by  the  inhuman  act.  Forgetting 
that  he  was  not  in  Italy,  where  age  is  respected, 
where  the  police  are  the  servants  of  the  people, 
with  clenched  hands  he  was  ready  to  champion  the 

132 


TITO 

cause  of  the  old  man.  He  did  not  stop  to  consider 
his  own  safety,  or  the  consequence  of  his  interfer 
ence,  and,  with  eyes  that  shot  gleams  of  fire,  stood 
before  the  officer, — the  Tito  of  the  valley  of  the 
Arno. 

"You  beast !"  he  cried,  "to  misuse  the  old  man. 
Were  I  big  enough,  I  would  beat  you  with  your 
own  club." 

For  an  instant  the  officer  was  so  surprised  he 
could  not  find  voice,  and  he  scowled  angrily  at 
the  daring  Tito.  He  was,  however,  but  momenta 
rily  disconcerted,  and  he  swooped  down  upon  the 
boy.  With  his  hand  on  Tito's  collar,  he  rewarded 
him  with  a  shaking  such  as  he  had  never  received 
— the  officer's  choice  vocabulary  being  taxed  to 
furnish  names  sufficiently  vituperative  to  meet  the 
exigency  of  the  case.  In  short,  the  warm-hearted 
Tito  was  under  arrest,  and,  after  a  night  spent  in 
a  cell,  was  asked  by  the  magistrate  what  defense 
he  had  to  offer  to  the  two  charges  alleged — a 
breach  of  the  peace  and  interfering  with  an  officer. 

The  boy's  eyes  flashed.  His  first  experience 
with  the  arm  of  the  law,  or  the  impressions  so  far 
made  upon  him  of  its  majesty,  filled  him  with  un 
wholesome  disdain,  so  pronounced  as  to  augur  ill 
for  his  escaping  severe  punishment.  With  impas 
sioned  fervor,  he  related  in  broken  English,  and 
the  purest  of  Italian,  when  the  vernacular  failed 
him,  the  story  of  the  officer's  assault  upon  the  old 
man.  His  voice  rang  clear,  and  his  tones  carried 
conviction  to  the  justice  on  the  bench,  who,  be 
lieving  the  boy,  and  realizing  that  his  advent  in 

133 


TITO 

America  had  been  of  recent  date,  was  so  far  lenient 
as  to  allow  him  to  give  his  version  of  the  affair  in 
his  own  way.  A  New  Yorker  would  not  have 
dared  to  assume  the  tone  in  which  Tito  stated  his 
case.  The  spectators  listened,  well  pleased,  de 
lighted  at  the  boy's  audacity,  though  fearful  that 
he  would  receive  double  punishment  for  his 
freedom  of  speech. 

"See!"  concluded  Tito,  drawing  from  his  pocket 
the  sketch  which  was  passed  to  the  judge,  "there 
is  the  picture  of  the  old  man.  I  drew  it  as  he  sat 
on  the  bench,  as  poor  as  I — and  I  had  not  a  penny 
— not  even  one ;  as  hungry  as  I,  and  no  food  had  I 
that  day;  yet  was  I  happy,  with  no  complaints — 
for  am  I  not  young  ?  While  he — couldst  thou,  Mr. 
Judge,  see  him  as  I  saw  him,  beaten  by  that — " 
He  turned  fiercely  to  the  complaining  officer. 

"Enough !"  spoke  the  court,  "discharged !  Boy, 
come  here." 

Tito,  with  a  glance  of  triumph  at  the  officer,  ap 
proached. 

"You  drew  this — it  is  your  work?"  asked  the 
judge,  holding  up  the  sketch. 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Tito,  respect  in  his  tone — 
his  idea  of  American  justice  had  grown  rapidly — 
"I  drew  it." 

"It  is  well  done.  You  will  do  more  of  this.  Be 
a  good  boy,  and  remember  you  are  not  in  Italy." 

Tito  walked  from  the  room  with  the  stately 
stride  of  an  ambassador. 

He  did  not  underestimate  the  good  fortune  of 
his  escape,  and  though  his  encounters  were  many 

134 


TITO 

— his  arrogant  independence  and  quick  temper 
constantly  getting  him  into  trouble — the  magic  of 
his  ready  tongue  and  fair  beauty  seemed  invariably 
to  turn  his  encounters  to  his  advantage,  and  the 
feeling  grew  that,  somehow,  by  some  occult  power 
he  was  conquering  the  world. 

But  in  the  night  stillness,  sitting  in  one  of  the 
parks,  he  brooded  over  his  loneliness,  his  solitary 
existence,  his  present  life,  which,  young  as  he  was, 
he  realized  was  slipping  by,  with  no  ambition 
other  than  the  consummation  of  a  boyish  dream  of 
revenge ;  and  there  were  times  when,  had  he  been 
thrown  in  the  way  of  redeeming  influence,  he 
would  have  surrendered  body  and  soul  to  his  nat 
ural  instincts  for  good.  But  at  such  moments  his 
mind,  by  a  process  that  was  as  the  ebb  and  flow  of 
the  tide,  drifted  back  to  the  days  of  his  childhood, 
and  the  blood  mounted  to  his  cheeks  at  the  remem 
brance  of  the  words  of  insult,  the  anathema  of  deg 
radation  that  had  been  his ; — ringing  in  his.  ears — 
a  far  away  echo  of  the  land  he  loved.  The  breezes 
whispered  to  him,  stirring  his  memory  to  activity, 
recalling  the  fragrant  woods,  the  smiling  fields, 
the  turbulent,  dancing  Arno ;  and  he  sighed  for  the 
joys  that  had  gone — golden  flashes  of  a  past  to 
which  time  only  lent  a  brighter  hue.  Then  the 
old  woman's  features  interposed,  fierce,  vindictive, 
uncanny  in  their  ghostly  outline  against  the  black 
ness  of  the  night.  He  shuddered  at  the  memory  of 
her  voice,  cold,  rasping,  freighted  with  malign 
hate :  her  words  yet  ringing  in  his  ears  as  if  it  were 
but  yesterday  that  he  had  listened. 

135 


TITO 

"Thou  hast  his  accursed  fair  skin,  my  Tito — but 
by  it  shall  he  know  thee.  We  were  so  happy, — 
we  two — I  and  my  beloved  B — ." 

"Bettina,"  murmured  the  boy  softly,  "my 
mother !  I  shall  keep  my  vow."  Taking  the  pict 
ure  from  his  pocket  he  kissed  it  reverently. 


136 


CHAPTER   XV. 

TIME  had  fulfilled  the  promise  of  Madge  Hol 
lander's  girlhood,  and  her  beauty  was  fuller, 
more  mature  than  when  we  last  saw  her  at 
the  home  of  the  McGlennons.  A  trifle  more 
stately,  with  an  added  air  of  sedateness — this  was 
all  that  marked  the  years  that  had  gone,  for  her 
smile  was  as  frank,  her  eyes  as  fearless  as  when  we 
first  knew  her.  At  times  you  could  see  the  vivac 
ity  of  youth  merge  into  an  almost  matronly  seri 
ousness.  She  had  seen  much  of  the  world  in  the 
past  ten  years,  much  that  had  appealed  to  emo 
tions  other  than  self-indulgence,  much  that  had 
awakened  in  her  feelings  almost  of  contempt  for 
the  weakness  of  human  nature  and  the  hypocrisy 
of  a  world  she  had  long  since  learned  to  despise. 

She  had  not  met  Vanburg  for  many  years,  but 
though  she  seldom  spoke  of  him,  she  had  not  for 
gotten  the  friendship  of  their  youth.  She  knew, 
as  did  all  his  former  friends  and  acquaintances,  that 
he  was  socially  dead;  but  her  faith  in  him  was  the 
faith  of  her  girlhood, — her  hope  lived  on  in  the 
belief  that  he  would  yet  be  turned  from  the  life  he 
had  chosen. 

The  club-room  was  crowded  with  a  representa 
tive  New  York  gathering :  men  of  wealth,  of  note, 
of  national  reputation — men  whose  names  were 

137 


TITO 

enrolled  in  the  financial  history  of  the  country; 
women  celebrated  on  two  continents  for  their 
beauty,  their  brilliancy. 

Madge  and  her  brother,  with  others,  were 
standing  before  a  frame  in  which  were  the  pictures 
of  past  members  of  the  club,  Vanburg's  among 
the  number.  His  name  was  mentioned,  and  Madge 
looked  quickly  at  the  speaker,  the  blood  mounting 
to  her  cheeks. 

"Yes,"  he  was  saying,  "Vannie  is  irredeemably 
lost,  in  every  social  sense,  and  for  all  purposes, 
though  I  hear  that  he  is  living  somewhere  in 
town." 

"It  were  better  that  he  were  dead,"  another  re 
plied,  "when  one  reaches  his  level  there  is  nothing 
left" 

It  was  not  the  words  so  much  as  the  tone  of 
voice  that  made  the  blood  tingle  in  Madge's  veins. 
Those  who  were  now  condemning  him  were  once 
Vanburg's  closest  friends.  They  had  enjoyed  his 
confidence,  his  hospitality;  his  trust  in  them  had 
been  complete,  and,  as  Madge  listened,  she  felt  the 
sting  that  ingratitude  had  the  power  to  arouse, 
for  she  contrasted  their  remarks  with  what  Van- 
burg  would  have  been  prompted  to  say  had  his 
position  and  that  of  the  speakers  been  reversed. 
She  was  aroused  to  a  feeling  of  indignation,  and, 
as  she  replied,  her  eyes,  more  than  her  words,  told 
that  she  was  moved  in  no  small  degree. 

"You  wrong  Mr.  Vanburg,"  she  said  with 
warmth,  "doubly  so  as  he  is  not  here,  or  in  a  po 
sition  to  defend  himself.  How  can  you  judge  of 

138 


TITO 

the  causes  that  led  to  his  downfall  ?  How  can  you 
say,  with  truth,  that  he  will  never  again  take  the 
position  in  society  that  he  should  occupy?  I  do 
not  know  what  led  to  Mr.  Vanburg's  fall,  but  I 
am  satisfied  that  there  was  some  cause,  some 
misfortune,  the  knowledge  of  which  would 
prompt  us  to  speak  of  him  with  greater  kind 
ness.  He  was  one  who  would  not  yield  to 
temptation  simply  for  the  enjoyment  of  irrational 
excesses ;  but,"  she  turned  to  the  last  speaker,  "do 
you  think  it  charitable  to  speak  thus  scoffingly  of 
him?  My  knowledge  of  the  world  is  not  pro 
found,  but  observation  has  taught  me  that  men 
can  be  most  unkind,  most  unjust.  How  many 
men,  think  you,  who  maintain  the  outward  sem 
blance  of  marked  respectability,  could,  should 
their  social  mantle,  in  an  unguarded  moment,  slip 
from  their  shoulders,  afford  to  speak  slightingly 
of  the  gentleman  under  discussion?  I  may  safely 
say  but  few;  yet  men,  judging  each  other,  are  the 
most  uncharitable  of  human  beings.  Let  one 
fall  below  their  social  plane,  and  they  crowd 
each  other  to  trample  on  him.  In  my  presence, 
I  beg  of  you  do  not  speak  slightingly  of  Mr.  Van- 
burg.  I  knew  him  as  my  brother's  friend,  as  a 
gentleman.  Whatever  his  walk  in  life,  I  believe 
him  such  still." 

Madge's  color  had  deepened,  and  the  earnest 
ness  of  her  tones  left  no  other  alternative  than  to 
change  the  topic  under  discussion,  which  was  ad 
roitly  done  by  one  of  the  ladies.  The  gentlemen 


139 


TITO 

looked  crestfallen,  and,  after  some  small  talk,  the 
group  scattered  to  different  parts  of  the  room. 

"Madge,"  whispered  her  brother,  "you're  a 
brick !  Poor  Vannie  needs  all  the  champions  who 
will  volunteer  for  him.  Anyway,  Davis  is  a 
vicious  cad,  and  never  had  a  good  word  to  say  for 
Van.  Won't  you  have  an  ice,  Madgie?  You  look 
tired." 

"No,"  she  replied,  "let  us  go;  it  is  suffocating 
here." 

An  hour  later  the  last  of  the  invited  guests  had 
departed,  the  rooms  took  on  their  customary  as 
pect,  and  only  the  regular  club  habitues  remained. 

Around  a  card  table  were  seated,  almost  to  a 
man,  the  same  party  that  were  present  one  night 
more  than  ten  years  before.  The  game  had  been 
in  progress  some  time,  to  the  accompaniment  of 
wine  and  much  laughter. 

"Gad !"  said  Harriman,  "I  never  saw  a  man  so 
neatly  crushed  as  Davis  was  to-night.  Said  some 
thing  nasty  about  Vanburg,  and  Ned  Hollander's 
sister,  in  the  most  artistic  manner  possible,  an 
nihilated  him.  Davis  hasn't  recovered  from  the 
shock  yet,  eh !  Davis  ?" 

"Did  sort  of  take  my  breath  away,"  Davis  re 
plied.  "Said  only  what  everyone  knows.  He's 
done  for  and  gone  to  the  dogs." 

"Ha,  ha!"  laughed  Harriman,  "Davis  looked 
like  an  eight-dollar-a-week  dry  goods  clerk  when 
he's  given  his  walking  ticket.  By  the  way,  where 
is  Vanburg  now?" 

140 


TITO 

"Don't  know.  Someone  said  that  he's  in  town, 
but  no  one  seems  to  know  where." 

"He  draws  a  monthly  allowance,  doesn't  he, 
Davis  ?" 

"He  has  a  fixed  sum  from  a  bit  of  property,  but 
that's  forwarded  through  a  middleman.  No  one 
is  aware  of  his  movements.  His  father  knows 
nothing  of  him.  Vannie's  dead  to  the  world." 

"All  I  can  say,"  said  Harriman,  "is  that,  with 
his  prospects,  he's  a  fool." 

Vanburg  and  his  companion,  meantime,  were 
walking  leisurely  down  the  Bowery.  Neither  were 
in  a  reminiscent  mood,  and  each  respected  the 
other's  disinclination  to  talk.  The  sight  of  the 
clubhouse,  and  the  friends  that  were  once  his,  had 
roused  in  Vanburg  memories  that  rankled  in  his 
brain  and  would  not  be  stilled,  bringing  home  to 
him  the  realization  of  his  present  position.  Some 
thing  akin  to  regret  started  a  train  of  maddening 
emotions.  For  a  few  minutes  he  was  conscious  of 
his  awful  social  isolation,  and  McGlennon,  divining 
his  thoughts,  believing  that  the  mystery  which 
surrounded  his  companion  was,  somehow,  associ 
ated  with  those  that  they  had  seen  entering  the 
clubhouse,  waited  for  him  to  speak. 

It  was  not  yet  midnight,  and  the  customary 
crowd  made  the  Bowery  throb  with  life.  The 
lights  flared  and  fell  upon  the  faces  of  all  nationali 
ties  stamped  with  varying  degrees  of  viciousness 
and  crime.  Homeless  youth,  tremblingly  fear 
some,  taking  the  initial  step  in  a  downward  career ; 
old,  hardened  offenders  who,  with  furtive  glance 

141 


TITO 

or  brazen  stare,  betrayed  the  guilty  acknowledg 
ment  of  the  craft. that  they  would  hide,  or  flaunted, 
with  derisive  leer,  that  they  were  post-graduates 
in  the  realm  of  debauchery  and  crime — these  min 
gled  with  honest  mechanics  and  housewives,  on 
their  way  home  from  one  of  the  cheap  places  of 
amusement;  young  girls  whom  poverty  and  hardy 
self-reliance  had  taught  to  pass  vice  unheeding, 
and  with  but  slight  feeling  of  interest,  repulsion  or 
fear.  Human  vultures,  with  lightning  eye,  singled 
out  those  upon  whom  they  could  prey;  and  each, 
with  glance  quickened  by  suspicion,  and  trained 
by  a  knowledge  of  humankind,  recognized  those 
better  or  worse  than  himself,  regulating  to  a  nicety 
his  social  status.  And  while  the  world  grows  in 
hypocrisy,  while  debasing  tendencies,  like  a  con 
tagious  disease,  are  spread  abroad,  the  gulf  be 
tween  the  high  and  low,  the  good  and  the  bad, 
expands  into  illimitable  space. 

Vanburg  and  his  companion  entered  Death 
House  Joe's  and  drank  two  or  three  times  in  quick 
succession.  There  was  the  customary  crowd  com 
ing  and  going,  loungers  leaning  against  the  wall, 
and  one,  "Micky  de  Pinch,"  in  a  darkened  corner 
of  the  saloon,  indicating  Vanburg  with  a  nod  of 
the  head  was  saying:  "Ef  you  fellers  '11  promise 
ter  stay  wid  me,  say !  I'll  do  'em  for  fair !  When  de 
other  bloke  breaks  away — well,  I  fink  we  can  put 
'im  ter  sleep  fer  keeps !" 

"Micky  de  Pinch"  had  a  deep  and  growing 
grudge  against  Vanburg,  and  bided  his  time  until 
he  could  pay  an  old  score  that  had  dated  from 

142 


TITO 

Vanburg's  interference  with  his  acknowledged 
profession — thieving. 

Though  Vanburg  was  aware  of  the  "Pinch's" 
intention,  he  treated  the  danger — for  he  was  not 
blind  to  the  fact  that  it  was  within  the  power  of 
the  thief  to  do  him  bodily  harm — with  a  contemp 
tuous  indifference  that  tended  only  to  further  en 
rage  the  man,  who  had  openly  boasted  that  he 
would  kill  him  the  first  opportunity  that  presented. 
When  Vanburg  had  entered  the  saloon,  in  the 
quick  glance  with  which  he  swept  the  room,  he 
recognized  the  "Pinch/'  but  bestowed  upon  him 
no  further  notice  than  upon  the  other  loungers. 
He  had  seated  himself  at  a  table  opposite  McGlen- 
non — his  back  to  the  group  of  men  whom  "Micky 
de  Pinch"  was  haranguing.  Not  indicating  by 
word  or  look  that  he  was  conscious  of  being  the 
subject  of  discussion,  his  ear  was  alert,  and  he  was 
satisfied  from  the  tones  of  their  voices,  and  the  few 
words  he  could  hear,  that  there  was  trouble  ahead. 
He  smiled  faintly,  for  he  knew  their  kind, — knew 
that,  apart  from  being  taken  unawares,  he  had 
nothing  to  fear,  and  he  held  them  in  wholesome 
contempt. 

There  was  another  in  the  room,  sitting  on  an 
old  bench  behind  which  the  "Pinch"  was  standing, 
who  was  a  silent  though  much  pleased  observer  of 
all  that  was  taking  place.  His  back  was  against 
the  wall,  his  knees  in  the  air,  serving  as  a  rest  for 
a  note-book  in  which  he  was  sketching  the  room 
and  its  occupants.  Seemingly  intent  upon  his 
work,  his  willing  ear  took  in  what  the  "Pinch" 

143 


TITO 

was  saying,  and  he  chuckled  with  evident  delight, 
for,  though  he  did  not  understand  all  he  heard,  he 
was  satisfied  that  there  was  trouble  brewing,  and 
his  smile  was  one  of  joyful  anticipation.  He  had 
transferred  the  villainous  visage  of  the  "Pinch"  to 
his  sketch-book,  and  he  regarded  his  efforts  with 
a  critical  eye,  yet  with  a  glow  of  pleasure — the 
likeness  would  have  done  credit  to  a  trained  hand. 
His  eye  again  sought  the  scowling  features  of  his 
model — the  low  forehead,  wrinkled  and  scarred, 
the  short,  thick  neck,  set  on  massive  shoulders,  the 
croppy,  yellow  beard,  the  bleary  eyes  that  flashed 
hate,  which  he  made  no  effort  to  hide,  at  the  man, 
who,  chatting  and  laughing  with  McGlennon,  was 
apparently  unconscious  that  his  life,  even  at  that 
very  moment,  was  in  danger.  Tito  had,  with  mar 
velous  exactness,  caught  the  expression  of  set  de 
termination  on  the  face  of  his  subject,  and  with  a 
sigh  of  satisfaction,  turned  his  attention  to  Van- 
burg  and  his  companion.  With  a  deft  hand  he 
sketched  the  two  men — McGlennon's  face  in  pro 
file,  his  good-natured,  open  countenance  wreathed 
in  smiles  as  he  listened  to  Vanburg's  jocular  re 
marks;  of  Vanburg,  sitting  with  his  back  to  the 
young  artist,  nothing  was  shown  but  the  outlines 
of  his  robust  form,  and  his  head  thrown  back  while 
he  laughed. 

Young  Tito,  while  rounding  out  a  background 
to  the  picture  with  swift  but  firm  touch,  was  drink 
ing  in  the  scheme  of  the  men  who,  with  a  minute 
ness  worthy  of  nobler  deeds,  were  planning  their 
line  of  attack  upon  Vanburg. 

144 


TITO 

"He's  a  robber,  dat's  wot  he  is!"  the  "Pinch" 
was  saying.  "When  I  had  de  long  green  in  me 
hand — an'  I  tell  you  'twas  as  slick  a  job  as  me 
fingers  ever  worked — he  lays  me  out  flat,  and  th' 
'dead  easy'  gets  his  coin  back.  What  do  yer  t'ink ! 
Say !  Me  blinkers  wer'  closed  fer  two  days !  You 
take  care  of  de  big  bloke,  an'  I'll  give  'im  de  'cold' 
between  de  ribs." 

For  an  instant  the  "Pinch"  considerately  dis 
played  a  knife  with  a  blade  six  inches  long,  but  it 
was  sufficient  time  for  the  industrious  Tito  to  add 
this  bit  of  realism  to  his  already  completed  picture 
— the  bar  with  its  mirrors  and  rows  of  bottles,  the 
one  bar-tender,  the  sporting  pictures  on  the  walls, 
the  men  at  the  table,  the  glasses  in  their  hands, 
their  heads  thrown  back,  laughing  over  the  good 
joke  that  they  had  money  left  for  only  two  drinks. 
The  motley  gang  in  the  rear  of  the  room  the  boy 
had  drawn  with  skill  and  daring: — "Micky  de 
Pinch,"  with  a  devilish  scowl  on  his  face  and  a 
knife  in  his  hand,  in  the  foreground — his  eyes 
turned  on  the  man  who  seemed  unconscious  of  his 
danger.  But  "Micky  de  Pinch"  had  not  reckoned 
on  the  mirror  that  faced  Vanburg,  in  which,  by  the 
dim  light,  he  had  seen  enough  to  make  him  keenly 
alive  to  what  was  taking  place  behind  him — of  all 
but  the  boy,  who  was  hidden  by  the  forms  of  the 
men  who  were  planning  the  attack. 

Tito  viewed  the  result  of  his  work  with  a  thrill 
of  pride ;  but  he  did  not  like  the  looks  of  the  knife, 
and  he  bestowed  a  scowl  of  disapproval  upon  the 
man  who  had  displayed  it. 


TITO 

The  young  nomadic  artist  had  been  in  New 
York  for  one  short  year,  but  what  experiences  had 
been  his!  His  eyes  laughed  the  same,  his  smile 
was  the  reflection  of  youthful  exuberance,  grip 
ping  you  with  a  power  you  could  not  resist,  for  it 
was  Nature  proclaiming  to  all  the  world  that  the 
heart  within  was  of  gold  of  the  purest  coinage. 
One  look  at  the  laughing,  mischievous  eyes,  one 
sound  of  the  rollicking  mirth,  that  tingled  in  your 
ears,  setting  the  heartstrings  of  joy  within  you 
rioting  madly,  and  you  put  all  worldly  cares  from 
you  and  laughed  with  him. 

Still,  life  had  been  far  from  rose-colored  since, 
almost  penniless,  he  had  landed  in  New  York. 
His  first  efforts  were  directed  toward  gaining  a 
livelihood,  but  these  were  perfunctory,  and  only 
when  driven  by  hunger,  or  the  necessity  of  procur 
ing  a  lodging,  did  he  bestir  himself  to  earn  suffi 
cient  for  his  needs.  In  the  Italian  settlement  he 
was  received  with  open  arms,  for  he  could  sing, 
but  this  did  not  please  him.  He  looked  upon  the 
squalid  dinginess  of  "Little  Italy"  with  something 
akin  to  disgust,  and  after  the  first  few  weeks  he 
would  have  no  more  of  it,  preferring  to  rove  about 
the  city,  loiter  in  the  parks,  doing  such  work  as 
presented  with  a  completeness  and  dispatch  that 
brought  immediate  and  generous  reward — refus 
ing  to  work  again  until  his  last  penny  was  gone. 
He  was  never  without  his  pencil  and  sketch-book, 
— they  had  become  to  him  his  companions,  and 
hunger  had  no  terrors,  nor  had  a  night  spent  in 
the  parks  the  power  to  depress  or  to  do  more  than 

146 


TITO 

inconvenience  him.  While  the  daylight  lasted, 
and  he  could  put  on  paper  the  scenes  representing 
the  ludicrous  side  of  life  that,  like  a  moving  pano 
rama,  were  presented  to  his  young,  imaginative 
mind,  he  was  content.  His  dress  was  shabby;  his 
face  had  lost  its  roundness,  and,  though  his  color 
was  fresh,  his  face  bore  evidence  of  lack  of  the  good 
nourishment  to  which  he  had  always  been  accus 
tomed. 

As  he  stood  beside  Vanburg  and  laid  the  sketch 
on  the  table,  his  smile  was  as  frank  as  of  old,  his 
voice  a  musical  echo  of  the  Tito  of  the  fields  of 
Tuscany. 

"Is  it  good?"  he  asked.  "Then  shalt  thou  pay 
me,  but — "  he  indicated  with  a  grimy  finger  the 
"Pinch"  with  the  knife  in  his  hand — "likest  thou 
that?  Yet  it  is  as  I  saw  him.  What  thinkest 
thou?  It  is  meant  for  thee." 

Vanburg  looked  at  the  sketch  before  him,  then 
into  the  eyes  that  laughed  into  his  own.  Tito's 
tone  was  bantering,  but  while  he  spoke,  Vanburg 
had  directed  a  keen,  searching  glance  at  the  men 
in  the  rear  of  the  room,  who,  even  then,  were  pre 
paring  for  an  immediate  attack. 

"You  did  this?"  Vanburg  asked,  incredulously. 
He  was  filled  with  wonder;  the  portrait  of  Mc- 
Glennon  seeming  to  laugh  right  out  from  the 
paper, — his  head  thrown  back,  his  eyes  twinkling 
with  merriment. 

"Yes,"  answered  Tito.  "Also  this,"  he  added, 
pointing  to  the  knife,  "that  is  for  thee.  I  heard 
him  say  as  much." 

147 


TITO 

Vanburg  looked  again  at  the  boy,  then,  after 
glancing  quickly  at  the  mirror  opposite,  spoke  to 
McGlennon  in  an  undertone. 

"I  have  been  watching  them  for  some  time," 
McGlennon  rejoined,  "they  mean  mischief.  Noth 
ing  would  give  me  greater  pleasure  than  to  brush 
the  floor  with  them.  Unless  I  mistake,  that  is  the 
thief,  Micky,  whom  I  heard  boasting  that  he  would 
'do  you  up.'  Have  a  care,  Kent,  bar-room  rights 
are  not  to  my  liking — nor,"  he  added,  "to  yours." 

There  was  a  movement  in  the  rear  of  the  room, 
a  sudden  rush,  muttered  imprecations,  and  imme 
diately  Vanburg  and  McGlennon  were  on  their 
feet — not,  however,  before  a  knife  in  the  uplifted 
hands  of  "Micky  de  Pinch"  was  within  a  few 
inches  of  Vanburg's  breast. 

But  there  was  one  on  whom  they  bestowed  little 
attention  who,  at  the  sight  of  the  knife,  had,  with 
cat-like  agility,  sprung  forward  to  grasp  the  arm 
of  the  would-be  assassin.  Tito,  recognizing  Van- 
burg's  danger,  with  sturdy  courage,  interposed  be 
tween  him  and  the  enraged  "Micky  de  Pinch,"  and 
the  knife,  which  he  was  successful  in  diverting 
from  Vanburg,  sank  into  the  fleshy  part  of  his  own 
left  arm.  For  the  space  of  a  minute  or  two  Van 
burg  and  McGlennon  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
and  delivered  such  punishment  as  the  gang  little 
expected;  but  it  was  of  short  duration,  for  since 
the  knife  had  failed  in  its  purpose,  as  soon  as  they 
could  pick  themselves  from  the  floor,  they  scram 
bled  over  each  other  by  front  and  rear  doors  to 
escape  the  sledge-hammer  blows  delivered  by  the 

148 


TITO 

two  men,  who,  with  Tito  and  the  smiling  bar 
tender,  were  in  possession  of  the  field. 

Tito's  wound  was  severe,  but  only  by  the  pallor 
of  his  face  and  a  set  expression  about  his  mouth — 
determination  not  to  give  way  to  the  pain  occa 
sioned  by  his  injury, — was  it  manifest  that  he  was 
hurt. 

Vanburg,  with  a  startled  look,  saw  the  blood 
trickling  down  the  hand  of  the  boy,  and  gently 
drew  Tito  to  him. 

"Poor  little  fellow,  so  you  received  the  blow 
meant  for  me.  Let  me  remove  your  jacket." 

Examining  the  cut,  he  ordered  the  bar-tender 
to  procure  some  clean,  white  cloth,  and,  with  Mc- 
Glennon's  assistance,  bandaged  the  wound. 

"Where  do  you  live?"  he  asked,  gently. 

"Here,"  replied  Tito,  with  a  quizzical  smile, 
"while  I  am  here;  when  I  am  not,  on  a  bench  in 
the  park." 

Though  he  made  a  brave  effort,  weakness  nearly 
overcame  him,  and,  unconsciously,  he  fell  back 
upon  his  native  tongue  and  spoke  in  Italian. 

"A.nd  have  you  no  home?"  Vanburg  asked  in 
Italian. 

"Ha!"  replied  Tito,  evidently  pleased,  "you 
speak  my  language,  but  you  fight  like  an  Ameri 
can!  Now,  I  shall  like  you.  If  you  would  have 
me  truly  grateful,  teach  me  the  art  that  you  know 
so  well  that  I  may — " 

Under  the  influence  of  a  glass  of  brandy  which 
the  bartender  had  given  him,  his  strength  re- 

149 


TITO 

turned,  the  color  again  stealing  slowly  to  his 
cheeks. 

"Home !"  he  continued,  with  his  old  time  laugh, 
"the  round  world  is  my  home,  and  the  sky  is  the 
roof.  You  have  the  picture?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  Vanburg  replied,  "to-morrow  you  shall 
have  twice  its  value,  yes,  ten  times  its  worth.  Boy, 
your  courage  nearly  cost  you  your  life.  Thank 
Heaven  you  are  safe,  I  have  enough  to  answer  for 
without  that.  Come,"  he  said,  turning  to  Mc- 
Glennon,  "we  will  take  the  boy  to  my  room ;  for 
tunately  I  have  it  paid  for  a  week  in  advance.  I 
can  wheedle  some  doctor  into  looking  at  the  cut, 
on  a  promise  to  pay  to-morrow." 

"Pooh!"  laughed  Tito,  "it  is  nothing — a 
scratch !  Yet  it  has  taught  me  how  it  feels,  for 
there  is  one  whom  I,  too,  shall  sometime  prick 
with  my  knife — now  I  know  how  it  will  hurt." 

Together  they  left  the  saloon  and  turned  east — 
the  son  listening  with  evident  delight  to  the  new 
found  friend,  who  spoke  Italian  with  the  soft, 
though  sonorous,  inflection  of  a  Florentine  noble 
— the  father  whose  life  the  boy  had  sworn  should 
wipe  out  his  own  disgrace. 


150 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

VANBURG  and  the  boy  entered  a  building  on 
a  short  street  which  paralleled  the  Bowery. 
The  place  was  old  and  dilapidated,  the  stairs 
rickety,  and  tenants  of  the  poorest  class  were  hived 
together,  living  lives  of  squalor,  penury,  even 
hopeless  misery.  Here  the  lowest  stratum  had 
been  reached,  and  only  death  released  the  dwellers 
of  this  heart-sickening  abode — for  human  ambi 
tion  died  at  its  threshold. 

McGlennon  left  them  at  the  door  to  seek  a  phy 
sician,  assuring  Vanburg  that  one  whom  he  had 
known  many  years — a  Dr.  Remo — would  come 
at  his  bidding — he  had  employed  him  many  times 
to  treat  his  daughter  Bill. 

Vanburg  and  Tito  mounted  the  stairs — Van- 
burg's  arm  around  the  boy,  who,  though  he  strug 
gled  manfully,  could  not  entirely  hide  a  growing 
weakness. 

Entering  a  room  on  the  second  floor  in  the  rear 
of  the  house,  the  sickly  flame  of  an  oil  lamp  dis 
closed  the  barren  emptiness  within.  A  single 
chair,  a  wash  stand,  and  a  bed,  scant  of  covering, 
with  one  pillow,  comprised  the  furnishings  of  the 
room — one  window  relieving  its  prison-like  ap 
pearance. 


TITO 

Vanburg  arranged  the  pillow  and  gently  bade 
the  boy  lie  down  until  the  arrival  of  the  doctor. 

Tito  lay  at  full  length  on  the  bed,  and  his  weak 
smile  gave  place  to  a  sigh  of  satisfaction,  for  had 
he  been  compelled  to  remain  on  his  feet  another 
ten  minutes,  nature  would  have  set  his  courage  at 
naught,  and  weakness  forced  him  to  surrender. 

They  talked  of  Italy,  of  the  boy's  arrival  in 
America,  and  Tito,  with  laugh  and  jest,  recounted 
his  trials,  his  struggles  to  earn  sufficient  to  meet 
his  needs,  his  inability  to  procure  work,  and  the 
prospect  of  a  future  that  promised  no  better  re 
sults.  Gleefully  relating  his  encounter  with  the 
officer  in  the  park,  he  dwelt  with  feeling  upon  the 
kindness  of  the  court  in  granting  his  release;  but 
his  experiences,  whether  good  or  bad,  were  related 
with  the  same  light-heartedness,  and  a  disposition 
to  view  his  misfortunes  in  the  light  of  a  joke. 
Vanburg  listened — in  his  eyes  an  expression  they 
seldom  reflected.  The  soft,  musical  voice  of  the 
boy,  cheerful,  though  his  wound  would  have  struck 
terror  to  the  heart  of  an  ordinary  man,  filled  his 
companion  with  a  sense  of  pleasurable  delight. 
The  tones  to  which  Vanburg  listened  sent  his 
memory  back  into  a  past  that  he  endeavored 
to  forget;  but  he  tried  to  put  such  thoughts  from 
him  as  a  trick  of  the  imagination,  a  fantasy,  a 
dream. 

Still  the  boy  talked  on.  He  was  drawn  to  the 
man  who,  sitting  beside  the  bed,  listened  with 
eager  ear  to  tales  of  adventure,  as  Tito  recounted 
his  experiences  with  boyish  fervor.  Turning  his 

152 


TITO 

head  on  the  pillow,  the  boy's  eyes,  with  engaging 
frankness,  met  the  almost  sorrowful  expression  in 
the  face  of  the  man  beside  him,  while  the  voice 
melted  into  a  cadence,  soft,  languorous, — again 
as  a  twinge  of  pain  reminded  the  speaker  of  his 
hurt,  sinking  to  a  whisper. 

What  was  there  in  the  voice  that  seemed  to 
thrill  the  very  depths  of  the  man's  soul?  What 
magic  that  could  send  his  mind  drifting  back  to  the 
years  that  he  would  forget;  what  likeness  that 
raised  the  ghost  of  the  past  that  he  would  bury? 
He  could  not  tell,  yet  he  seemed  to  have  heard  the 
voice  before  at  a  time  when  he  was  a  man,  a  gen 
tleman.  Why  should  it  arouse  memories,  almost 
forgotten?  What  note  had  been  tuned  to  the 
tones  to  which  he  now  listened?  He  was  puz 
zled,  confused,  but  the  memories  would  not  be 
stilled,  and  struggled  to  assert  themselves.  He 
looked  at  the  fair  beauty  of  the  face  on  the  pillow, 
the  light,  wavy  hair  tossed  back  from  the  brow, 
the  eyes  that  laughed,  though  the  pallor  of  the  face 
told  of  physical  suffering.  Rising,  he  walked  from 
end  to  end  of  the  room,  nervous,  excited,  irritated, 
yet  he  could  not  account  for  the  conflict  of  feel 
ings  that  possessed  him. 

As  suddenly  as  he  had  arisen  he  again  seated 
himself  beside  the  bed  and  took  the  boy's  hand  in 
his  own. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said  gently,  "does  it  pain  you 
badly?" 

"Not  much,"  answered  Tito,  with  a  smile,  "not 
more  than  when  T  fought  in  my  own  Italia.  They 

153 


TITO 

were  bigger  than  I  and  would  never  fight  me 
singly.  Wilt  thou  teach  me  to  fight  as  thou  didst 
to-night  ?  Oh,  it  was  grand !  How  the  beasts  did 
fall  before  thy  blows!"  He  laughed  softly,  and 
his  admiring  eyes  turned  to  Vanburg. 

"My  poor  child,  I  can  teach  thee  nothing  that 
would  be  good  for  thee." 

Tito  looked  at  him  with  wondering  eyes.  Be 
fore  he  could  reply,  steps  were  heard  ascending  the 
stairs.  Vanburg  rose  with  a  sigh  and  opened  the 
door.  McGlennon  and  Dr.  Remo  entered. 

The  doctor,  without  speaking,  approached  the 
bed.  Bending  over  Tito,  he  unbandaged  the 
wound,  and,  without  loss  of  time,  began  dress 
ing  it. 

"A  flesh  wound,"  he  said,  "not  serious,  but  pain 
ful.  You  must  have  some  knowledge  of  surgery 
to  have  dressed  it  so  well.  I  could  not  have  done 
it  better." 

"The  first  principles  of  surgery  I  learned  when 
at  school,"  Vanburg  replied. 

When  the  doctor  had  entered  the  room  he  had 
not  noticed  Vanburg,  but  had  at  once  approached 
the  bed  to  examine  his  patient.  He  now  turned 
quickly,  almost  with  a  violent  start,  and  stared  at 
him  in  astonishment. 

For  an  instant  neither  spoke.  Dr.  Remo  broke 
the  silence. 

"I  did  not  understand,"  he  faltered,  "you  say 
you  studied  surgery?" 

"The  elementary  principles,"  Vanburg  replied. 

Having  finished  dressing  the  wound,  the  doctor 
154 


TITO 

gave  directions  for  its  care.  Laying  his  hand  on 
Tito's  forehead,  he  looked  at  him  searchingly  for 
a  full  half  minute. 

"Your  son?"  he  asked,  turning  to  Vanburg. 

"No,"  laughed  Vanburg,  "he  is  not  my  son.  I 
am  not  so  fortunate.  He  is  a  courageous  little 
devil  who  turned  away  a  knife  meant  for  my 
throat.  We  both  met  with  misfortune  by  his  act. 
I  escaped  and  he  received  the  thrust." 

Tito  laughed  gleefully.  The  doctor  smiled,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  Vanburg's  face,  his  manner  per 
turbed,  his  voice  betraying  that  he  was  laboring 
under  excitement. 

"Have  you  lived  long  in  New  York?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  for  the  past  ten  years,"  Vanburg  an 
swered. 

Again  Dr.  Remo  looked  at  him — looked  with 
questioning,  eager  glance,  until  Vanburg,  feeling 
ill  at  ease  under  the  eyes  which  rested  upon  his 
features  in  a  prolonged,  questioning  stare,  turned 
his  attention  to  the  boy.  The  action  seemed  to 
recall  the  doctor's  faculties  and  he  prepared  to  go. 

"I  shall  send  you  your  fee  by  Mr.  McGlennon," 
said  Vanburg.  "Allow  me  to  thank  you  for  your 
kindness  in  coming." 

Again  the  doctor  stared  blankly  at  him.  The 
sound  of  Vanburg's  voice  seemed  to  paralyze  him, 
and  for  an  instant  he  stood  quite  confused,  in  the 
centre  of  the  room ;  then  recovering  himself,  he 
bade  them  good-night,  and,  accompanied  by  Mc 
Glennon,  descended  the  stairs  to  the  street.  Here 


155 


TITO 

he  plied  the  Scotchman  with  questions  as  to  Van- 
burg's  past,  but  he  could  learn  little. 

When  they  were  left  alone,  Vanburg  again 
seated  himself  beside  the  bed. 

"You  feel  better  already?"  he  queried.  "Your 
color  has  improved." 

"Yes,"  answered  Tito.  Then,  with  a  laugh, 
"How  comes  it  that  thou  knowest  my  name?  I 
had  not  told  thee." 

Vanburg  looked  perplexed.  "No,  you  have  not 
told  me;  neither  do  I  know  your  name." 

"Yet  thou  hast  told  it  to  the  doctor.  'Little 
Devil/  it  was  that  thou  hast  called  me.  That  is 
why  I  laughed.  Thou  hast  guessed  rightly.  They 
have  always  called  me  'Little  Devil.' ' 

"But  you  have  another  name?" 

"Yes,"  came  the  laughing  response.  "Tito, 
that's  all — just  Tito;  but  no  one  calls  me  by  that 

name,  they  like  'Little  Devil'  or  'Little /  but 

I  won't  tell  thee  of  that — not  now." 

"And  my  name  is  Kent,  Horace  Kent.  My  last 
name  is  what  I  am  known  by,  the  world  has  for 
gotten  the  other.  Tito — that's  a  pretty  name.  I 
shall  not  call  you  'Little  Devil' — better  'Little 
Saint'  or  'Little  Godfather,'  for  did  you  not  save 
my  life?" 

"Pooh!"  protested  Tito,  "that  pig  could  only 
have  scratched  thee,  and  I  received  the  scratch, 
wherefore  have  I  not  a  bed  to  sleep  in?  When  I 
again  see  the  villain,  I  shall  thank  him  for  the 
favor.'' 

Vanburg  smiled.  "What  a  brave  little  chap  you 
156 


TITO 

are,  indeed !  Well,  we  are  both  fortunate,  not  that 
I  escaped,  but  that  I  have  you  here;  for  were  I 
alone  I  should  be  spending  a  sleepless  night,  and 
now  you  shall  sleep  for  both  of  us,  and  it  is  time, 
for  morning  is  most  here." 

Vanburg  lay  beside  the  boy,  and  almost  immedi 
ately  Tito  fell  into  a  sound  slumber. 

Minutes  became  hours,  and  the  boy's  regular 
breathing  was  the  only  sound ;  but  the  man  beside 
him  did  not  sleep,  for  his  brain  refused  to  be 
quieted,  leading  him  a  mad  journey  through  years 
that  he  had  forgotten,  and  running  through  it  all 
was  the  echo  of  the  boy's  voice: — a  vibrant  note, 
but  the  words  were  stamped  on  his  brain — "Hor 
ace,  my  love,  let  me  hear  your  voice.  Tell  me 
again  what  I  know  so  well — that  you  love  me." 

He  made  no  further  effort  to  woo  sleep,  lying 
quite  still  that  he  might  not  disturb  the  boy,  until 
the  sun,  hours  high,  awakened  Tito. 

Vanburg  rose  and  the  boy  smiled  a  good  morn 
ing.  His  cheeks  were  aglow,  his  eyes  clear,  and 
the  fever  of  the  past  night  had  left  him. 

"You  are  feeling  better?"  inquired  Vanburg. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  will  get  up." 

"No,"  said  Vanburg,  quietly,  but  with  an  au 
thoritative  tone,  "you  must  not." 

Without  protest,  Tito  obeyed;  then  he  won 
dered  at  his  compliance  with  Vanburg's  order;  it 
was  not  a  request,  it  was  a  command. 

"Now,  little  man,"  said  Vanburg,  gently,  "I 
must  leave  you  for  an  hour.  There  is  breakfast  for 
you  to  consider,  and  to-day  God  is  very  good,  for 

157 


TITO 

it  is  the  fifteenth  of  the  month,  otherwise  you 
would  go  hungry,  wherefore  Heaven  is  kind.  Had 
I  not  the  funds  coming,  I  think — I  think — "  he 
laughed  softly — "I  think  I  should  steal  that  you 
might  eat;  though  that  crime  cannot,  as  yet,  be 
laid  at  my  door.  But,  as  I  said,  God  is  good !  We 
shall  eat.  You  will  not  be  lonesome  while  I  am 
gone?" 

"Lonesome?  No!  While  thou  art  away  I  shall 
see  again,  in  memory,  the  fight,  thou  and  the  big 
fellow  standing  together  and — oh !  how  thou 
didst  strike  out;  and  the  vermin  ran — fighting 
with  each  other  to  see  who  would  get  out  first !" 

Tito's  merry  laugh  rang  out  clear,  musical, 
hearty,  and  Vanburg  forgot  all  but  the  joy  of  the 
moment  and,  with  equal  zest,  joined  in  the  mirth. 

With  a  caution  to  lie  quiet  and  not  disturb  his 
arm,  Vanburg  went  out. 

'"'Heigh-ho!"  said  Tito  with  a  grimace  as  the 
pain  darted  down  his  arm  into  his  finger  tips,  "thus 
does  bad  fortune  bring  good.  Have  I  not  a  bed, 
and  a  breakfast  to  come,  and  a  good  friend?  I 
wonder  who  he  is !  He  talks  like  a  noble  and  he 
fights — Madonna  Mia!  How  he  can  fight!  Now 
I  know  he  is  of  gentle  birth.  No  clod  of  the  fields, 
no  one  but  a  gentleman  could  fight  as  he.  Beauti 
ful  !  His  fists  went  out  straight :  biff — biff — biff — 
and  they  fell  before  him  like  a  row  of  ninepins. 
The  swine!  and  one,  that  villain  of  the  yellow 
beard,  would  knife  him !  And  the  big  fellow !  But 
he  strikes  overhand  as  they  swing  an  axe.  If  the 
thieves  had  only  had  more  courage  it  would  have 

158 


TITO 

lasted  longer;  but  they  ran  like  women — sheep. 
Bah !" 

He  looked  about  the  room,  but  there  was  little 
to  interest  him — barren  walls,  torn  paper  hanging 
in  strips,  on  which  the  dust  of  years  remained  un 
disturbed. 

''I  wrould  much  like  to  look  out  of  that  win 
dow,"  quoth  Tito,  "but  he  told  me  not  to  move, 
and  I  must  do  as  he  tells  me — I,  who  was  never 
made  to  obey.  He's  very  nice,  and  gentle,  but  he 
looks  very  grimy  and  savage  with  that  beard ;  but 
why  is  he  here?" 

Vanburg  entered,  carrying  a  tray  on  which  was 
a  dainty  breakfast. 

"Now,  little  man,  you  must  eat.  See!"  Van- 
burg  uncovered  the  tray.  "Coffee,  rolls,  fresh 
from  the  baker  this  morning,  an  omelet,  and — " 

"And  thou,"  interrupted  Tito,  "thou  hast  not 
eaten." 

"It  is  too  early  for  me,"  protested  Vanburg. 

"Then  /  shall  not  eat,"  said  Tito,  stoutly,  "not 
unless  thou  wilt  eat  with  me." 

"Then  we  will  both  eat,"  laughed  Vanburg,  well 
pleased. 

They  ate  the  food  to  the  last  crumb,  chatting 
and  laughing  together,  Tito  relating  his  boyish 
escapades,  Vanburg  listening  with  new-found 
pleasure,  laughing  when  the  boy  laughed  or  listen 
ing  with  deep,  sympathetic  interest  while  Tito  re 
lated  his  story  of  the  days  without  food,  the  nights 
without  shelter.  Then  drifting  back  to  his  own 
Italy,  he  spoke  of  Florence. 

159 


TITO 

"Florence,"  murmured  Vanburg,  dreamily, 
"dear  Florence,  I  can  see  it  now,  with  the  soft  twi 
light  flooding  the  tower  of  the  Palaccio  Vecchio. 
Ah !  boy,  you  don't  know  what  Florence  is  to  me." 

"Thou  lovest  it?"  asked  the  boy  in  a  subdued 
tone. 

"I  love  the  memories  with  which  it  is  associ 
ated,"  replied  Vanburg,  sadly. 

A  silence  followed,  broken  by  Tito.  The  men 
tion  of  Florence  brought  to  mind  his  stolen  purse. 

In  an  instant  his  eyes  shot  fiery  gleams,  and,  as 
he  related  the  story  of  the  loss  of  his  purse,  Van- 
burg  listened,  first  with  interest,  then  with  aston 
ishment  ;  for  it  was  the  Tito  of  Tuscany  who  spoke, 
his  cheeks  aglow,  his  voice  trembling  with  passion, 
his  language  a  stream  of  invectives  hurled  at  the 
culprit  who  had  defrauded  him. 

Vanburg  looked  at  the  boy  in  wonder.  "What 
a  little  firebrand  you  are!"  he  said,  with  a  laugh. 
"Who  would  have  believed  there  was  a  volcano 
burning  within  ?  Now  I  know  why  you  are  called 
'Little  Devil,'  but  I  like  you  best  as  Tito — when 
you  smile,^  when  you  laugh,  when  your  voice  is 
soft,  full  of  joy,  like  a  wild  bird  in  the  early  morn 
ing.  When  I  hear  that  note  in  your  voice  I  think 
of  dear  Florence — ah !  boy,  you  cannot  under 
stand,  but  I  have  reason  to  love  it,  yet  greater  rea 
son  to  be  sad  at  the  remembrance." 

Thus  passed  the  day,  Vanburg  listening  to  the 
boy,  as  one  listens,  when,  after  years  of  absence, 
the  voice  one  loves,  fills  one  with  joy. 

He  tended  the  boy  with  gentle,  even  womanly 
1 60 


TITO 

tenderness,  and  McGlennon's  coming  in  the  early 
evening  seemed  like  an  intrusion  to  be  resented. 

When  Vanburg  had  gone  out  in  the  morning 
for  Tito's  breakfast,  he  had  given  McGlennon  the 
money  with  which  to  pay  the  doctor.  The  Scotch 
man,  after  the  customary  greeting  and  inquiry 
as  to  Tito's  injury,  handed  the  money  back  to 
Vanburg. 

"You  did  not  see  him,  then?"  Vanburg  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  McGlennon,  "I  saw  him.  I 
asked  him  what  his  fee  was,  and  he  said,  'Nothing.' 
When  I  pressed  it  on  him,  he  got  hot;  said  he 
would  look  in  at  the  boy  to-night,  but  he  would 
not  take  the  money." 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  it?"  asked  Vanburg. 
"I  will  not  accept  service  without  paying." 

"Well,"  replied  McGlennon,  "you  must  talk  to 
him,  he'll  be  here  to-night.  I'm  not  to  blame." 

"True,"  laughed  Vanburg. 

"I  know,"  chirped  the  voice  from  the  bed,  "it 
was  because  of  the  fight.  /  would  not  take  money 
from  one  who  can  fight  as  thou  canst.  Now  I  shall 
like  the  good  doctor." 

"You  will  not  work  until  the  boy  is  well?"  asked 
McGlennon,  as  he  was  about  to  depart. 

"No,"  answered  Vanburg. 


161 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

AT  the  end  of  a  week  Tito,  against  the  advice 
of  the  physician,  and  unheeding  Vanburg's 
earnest  entreaties  and  protestations,  pro 
nounced  himself  well  again.  With  a  touch  of  his 
erst-time  imperiousness,  he  gave  forth  his  edict. 
His  arm  would  heal  while  he  sought  work,  also 
while  he  continued  a  search  which,  as  yet,  had 
been  productive  of  nothing  but  disappointment. 
With  eyes  which  spoke  a  tenderness  he  did  not 
seek  to  hide,  with  his  hand  in  Vanburg's,  he 
thanked  him,  expressing  his  gratitude  as  those  of 
his  own  country  voice  feelings  that  are  near  to 
their  hearts — in  language  half  romantic  and  wholly 
tender. 

Vanburg  was  moved,  more  deeply  moved  than 
outward  appearances  indicated,  and,  when  satisfied 
that  the  boy  would  not  be  turned  from  his  pur 
pose,  wrung  from  him  a  promise  that  he  would 
corne  to  see  him,  that,  if  he  needed  assistance,  he 
would  not  hesitate  to  send  for  him. 

To  Vanburg,  the  past  week  had  been  as  a  week 
of  holy  life — seven  bright  days  in  the  ten  years  that 
had  been  a  blot,  a  mar,  a  nightmare  in  the  life 
which  had  begun  with  the  death  of  Bettina.  It 
had  been  to  him  a  week  of  peace,  of  contentment, 
of  a  yearning  desire  to  keep  the  boy  forever  with 

162 


TITO 

him — the  boy  who  had  entered  his  life  by  the 
stroke  of  a  knife  in  a  drunken  brawl.  He  could 
explain  the  feelings  that  drew  him  to  Tito  only  by 
the  belief  that  life  seemed  less  lonely,  that  his  pres 
ence,  his  cheerfulness,  his  laugh  seemed  to  dispel 
the  gloom — a  gloom  which,  when  alone,  when  not 
under  the  influence  of  drink,  hung  over  him  like  a 
pall.  Yet,  when  this  gleam  of  light  had  entered 
his  life,  when  a  hope  was  held  out  to  him  that  in 
the  dreary  world  there  might  be  one  who  would 
learn  to  care  for  him,  again  must  that  hope  follow 
those  already  dead.  Again  must  he  pick  up  the 
life  which  had  been  interrupted  by  this  boy,  and 
after  he  had  taken  one  draught  of  the  cup  of  happi 
ness,  when  the  promise  of  a  new  life  was  held  out 
to  him,  must  he  dive  into  the  depths  of  the  hell 
that,  for  one  brief  week,  was  but  a  memory  that 
he  would  stifle.  What  was  this  new  found  joy? 
What  power  had  this  boy  that  he  could  awaken 
memories  long  since  dead  ?  Why  should  his  going 
stir  the  very  depths  of  his  heart,  and  kindle  again 
the  yearnings,  the  hopes,  the  desires  which  he  had 
put  forever  from  him?  He  could  not  tell,  no  an 
swer  came  to  him,  and  Tito  laughingly  consented 
to  his  almost  passionate  appeal  that  he  stay  one 
night  more  and  start  in  the  morning. 

On  the  boy's  part,  he  was  loath  to  go,  for  the 
unfaltering  care,  the  tenderness  he  had  received 
from  Vanburg,  awoke  within  him  gratitude  which 
grew  into  affection,  and,  as  the  days  went  by,  the 
unfailing  attention  he  received  touched  his  young 
heart  and  started  a  train  of  emotions  which,  to  him, 

163 


TITO 

were  altogether  new  and  strange.  But,  young  as 
he  was,  he  realized  that  the  money  which  Vanburg 
was  daily  spending  for  his  comfort  he  could  ill 
afford,  for  he  had  procured  for  the  boy  luxuries 
with  which  he  never  indulged  himself.  Tito's 
pride  would  not  bow  to  Vanburg's  request  that  he 
prolong  his  stay ;  and  at  the  assurance  that  his  in 
come  was  sufficient  for  both,  the  boy  laughed  and 
shook  his  head. 

"What  will  you  do?"  asked  Vanburg.  "You 
cannot  work  till  your  arm  heals." 

"I  can  sell  papers,"  answered  Tito,  stoutly. 
"The  American  boys  screech  the  news ;  I  sing — a 
bar  or  two  only,  but  the  customers  hear,  for  they 
like  the  song!  Then  they  buy." 

"You  sing  the  pennies  out  of  their  pockets," 
said  Vanburg,  smiling. 

"True,"  the  boy  answered.  "Thou  knowest 
Italy  and  Italian  well;  then  shouldst  thou  know 
this." 

He  sang  a  folk-song  dear  to  the  heart  of  every 
Tuscan — sang  softly,  with  tender  pathos, — the  last 
note  dying  into  a  tender  appeal. 

Vanburg  listened  enraptured. 

"Just  Heaven !"  he  muttered  under  his  breath, 
"the  very  song  she  used  to  sing,  her  very  voice,  the 
same  tenderness,  expression,  beauty.  Tell  me, 
boy,  where  did  you  learn  that  song?" 

"We  of  Tuscany  all  know  it,"  answered  Tito. 

Vanburg  rose  and  walked  the  floor.  There  was 
silence  for  some  moments,  then  he  asked,  "Will 
you  sing  it  again,  Tito  ?" 

164 


TITO 

"Yes,  of  course,"  laughed  the  boy. 

He  sang  again,  giving  rein  to  his  voice  and  his 
passion,  and  when  he  had  finished,  Vanburg  bent 
over  him  and  kissed  him  lightly  on  the  forehead. 

Neither  spoke,  for  Vanburg  was  visibly  affected. 
It  was  a  song  Bettina  had  sung  for  him  times  with 
out  number,  and  Tito,  divining  his  feelings,  re 
mained  silent. 

"Tell  me,  boy,  why  you  will  leave  me?  What  is 
this  mission  of  which  I  have  heard  you  speak,  aye, 
even  in  your  sleep?  What  is  this  search  that  is 
before  you?  Tell  me,  that  is,  if  it  is  something 
you  may  tell." 

Tito  did  not  immediately  reply.  "Yes,"  he  said, 
softly,  "I  may  tell  thee.  I  seek  my  father, — the 
father  whom  I  never  saw,  the  father  whom  I  do 
not  know,  who  gave  me  no  name.  I  search  to  ask 
him  why  they  call  me  'Piccolo  d'Ignoti?' ' 

His  voice  ended  in  a  sob,  and  his  head  fell  upon 
his  arm.  Vanburg  strode  to  his  side,  and,  laying 
his  hand  upon  the  boy's  head,  asked  gently : 

"Is  it  then  as  bad  as  that  ?  Poor  Tito,  the  fault 
is  not  thine;  it  is  for  him  to  weep,  not  for  thee." 

Walking  the  floor,  he  spoke  again,  his  voice 
shaking  with  emotion. 

"Oh,  God,  if  I  were  that  father,  what  would  I 
not  give  to  call  him  son, — to  swear  by  the  holy 
book  that  he  was  mine  by  right  of  Heaven.  To 
clasp  him  in  my  arms  and  feel  his  lips  touch  mine 
in  forgiveness.  To  hear  his  voice  when  he  would 
say,  'My  father,  I  forgive  you.'  But  that  is  not  for 
me.  I  am  one  of  those  leprous  things  that  Fate 

165 


TITO 

pursues.  In  all  the  world  is  there  no  single  heart 
beat  which,  by  right,  I  can  claim  as  my  own.  For 
me  the  past  is  dead,  the  future — what  ?  And  now, 
that  Fate  should  jeer  at  me,  that  I  may  feel  with 
keenness  the  full  despair  of  a  life,  childless,  alone, 
I'm  told  some  fiend  there  is  who  would  disown 
this  boy,  while  I — my  soul  might  be  damned 
through  all  eternity  if  I  could  only  take  him  in  my 
arms  and  call  him  mine." 

Overcome  by  emotion  that  was  almost  mad 
ness,  Vanburg  had  spoken  in  English,  forgetting, 
for  the  time  being,  that  he  was  not  alone.  Tito 
had  listened,  at  first  with  surprise,  then  with  fear, 
for  Vanburg  was  filled  with  overpowering  passion 
sweeping  all  before  it  in  its  intensity — his  voice 
dying  into  a  husky  sob.  While  the  boy  did  not 
grasp  the  meaning  of  the  words,  the  emotions 
spoke  to  him  a  language  he  understood,  and  he 
knew,  though  he  could  find  no  reason  for  it,  that 
it  was  his  reference  to  his  father  that  had  called 
forth  this  outbreak  of  feeling. 

"Hast  thou  ever  had  a  son?"  asked  Tito,  gently. 

"No,  no,  that  was  denied  me,"  came  the  answer. 

"But  thou  wouldst  have  been  a  good  father,  that 
I  believe,"  said  Tito. 

"By  God's  grace,  yes,  but  this  I  know — that  you 
would  be  a  good  son.  And  you  would  have  loved 
your  father,  little  man,  had  he  taken  the  trouble  to 
teach  you  what  love  was.  Did  good  exist  within 
him  he  would  have  directed  your  young  mind  into 
other  channels,  and  higher  ideals  would  have  ap 
pealed  to  you,  ideals  now  hidden  by  unnatural 

1 66 


TITO 

desires — aims,  that,  in  you,  are  born  of  external 
influences  foreign  to  your  nature.  What  you  now 
feel,  boy,  the  hate  and  the  passion  that  move  you, 
are  the  barnacles  that  want  of  care  and  want  of 
love  have  allowed  to  grow.  They  will  not  always 
remain  with  you,  for  your  heart  is  pure.  These 
emotions  are  but  rank  growth,  and  like  the  hull  of 
a  ship  after  it  has  been  scraped  clean,  so  will  your 
heart  be  cleansed  by  love  that  will  purify  your 
being." 

Tito's  luminous  eyes  were  riveted  on  the  speak 
er's  face,  and  the  sorrowing  inflection  of  the  voice 
moved  the  boy  deeply.  They  talked  far  into  the 
night,  and  for  the  first  time  in  Tito's  young  life,  he 
was  drinking  in  words  of  advice  and  sympathy  that 
sank  into  his  heart ;  and  seed  was  sown  for  a  won 
derful  fulfilment  of  good  that  neither  had  the 
power  to  foresee.  They  lay  on  the  bed — the  boy 
to  sleep,  Vanburg  to  stare  blankly  at  the  ceiling, 
listening  to  the  boy's  breathing,  and  anticipate  the 
morrow  that  would  bring  with  it  loneliness,  the 
thought  of  which  made  him  heartsick. 

The  long  hours  of  the  night  wore  away;  sleep, 
fitful,  dream-ridden  sleep  came  only  with  the 
dawn,  and  with  a  start,  he  would  wake,  always  with 
the  consciousness  that  some  misfortune  awaited 
him  on  the  coming  day. 

The  boy  slept  on,  and  when  the  sun  stole 
through  the  window  and  the  first  slanting  beams, 
blades  of  golden  light,  shot  across  the  room,  they 
struck  upon  Vanburg's  heart,  as  would  the  cry  of 
a  sentry  proclaiming  the  hour  of  execution. 

167 


TITO 

Quietly  he  turned  on  his  side,  that  he  might  watch 
the  sleeping  boy,  whose  cheeks  were  aglow  with 
health  and  youth,  sleeping  the  sleep  of  one  whose 
mind  is  yet  untouched  by  the  wormwood  of  the 
world's  bitterness.  The  sunbeams  shifted  and  fell 
aslant  the  face  of  the  sleeper  and  he  awoke — 
awoke  with  a  laugh,  and,  springing  out  of  the  bed, 
with  a  cheery  ''Good-morning,"  asked  Vanburg  if 
he  had  slept  well. 

"Yes,"  answered  Vanburg,  with  a  smile.  "As 
well  as  usual.  As  well  as  usual." 

"And  I  had  such  a  wonderful  dream."  Tito's 
eyes  rivaled  the  sunlight  dancing  through  the  win 
dow.  "We — thou  and  I,  were  in  dear  Florence; 
we  were  wandering  through  the  galleries;  after  a 
time  we  left  the  city  behind  and  we  could  hear  the 
Arno  singing  its  song,  far  away  in  the  valley  where 
I  lived ;  and  we  walked  through  the  woods  and  the 
fields,  and  the  birds  were  singing — I  wonder  if 
dreams  ever  come  true?" 

"Yes,  I  believe  they  do,  sometimes;  anyway, 
boys'  dreams  do ;  but  what  says  my  Tito  to  coffee, 
hot  rolls,  and  some  fruit — the  Tito  who  is  going  to 
leave  me?" 

"Good,"  laughed  Tito,  "very  good,  but  thou  art 
far  too  kind;  already  thou  hast  done  too  much 
for  me — and  besides,  shall  I  not  see  thee  again? 
Yes,  and  often.  I  shall  not  forget  my  good 
friend." 

Vanburg  brightened. 

"You  will  not  forget — you  promise?'1 

168 


TITO 

"I  never  made  a  promise  I  did  not  keep,  nor  a 
vow  I  shall  not  fulfil." 

"I  shall  hire  this  room  for  a  month,"  said  Van- 
burg,  "though  it  is  a  mean  place,  so  that  you  may 
know  where  to  find  me;  and  I  shall  always  be  ex 
pecting  you  to  come  back;  and  when  I  hear  a 
laugh  on  the  stair  I  shall  say — that's  Tito !  He  has 
come  back  to  me  again — now  for  breakfast !  You 
must  have  patience,  little  man.  To-day  I  must 
have  the  choicest  fruit,  the  hottest  rolls,  the  richest 
cream  for  the  coffee.  This  breakfast  you  must 
remember." 

"That  1  will,  I  doubt  not,"  answered  Tito,  "for 
to-morrow  it  will  be  black  bread  and  a  glass  of 
water,  or  perhaps,  the  water  without  the  bread. 
Then  shall  I  think  of  thy  breakfast, — but,"  he 
added,  gravely,  "it  will  remind  me  how  good  thou 
hast  been." 

"Good!"  echoed  Vanburg.  "Ha!  Good!"  and 
he  hurried  off  for  the  breakfast. 

During  the  meal  Tito  chatted  and  laughed  with 
magpie  volubility,  but  when  they  had  finished,  and 
it  was  time  to  go,  his  voice  faltered,  and  the  liquid 
tenderness  of  the  dead  Bettina  shone  from  the  eyes 
that  sought  Vanburg's.  The  past  week  had 
wrought  a  change  which,  with  the  heedlessness  of 
youth,  he  had  not  paused  to  analyze,  and  it  was 
when  he  was  preparing  to  go  that  he  had  to  call 
upon  his  courage  and  his  manliness  to  choke  back 
the  tears. 

"Don't  forget  Tito,  the  'Little  Devil/  "  he  said 
with  a  laugh  that  ended  with  a  jar  and  a  half  sob. 

169 


TITO 

"Put  this  in  your  pocket,"  Vanburg  handed 
him  a  sealed  envelope,  "and  when  it  comes  to  the 
black  bread  and  water,  open  it." 

"It  is  not  money?"  said  Tito,  "for  if  it  is — " 

"It  is  something  that  will  save  me  hours  of 
misery — of  hell.  Take  it,  boy,  for  my  sake." 

He  was  gone,  and  Vanburg  was  alone. 


170 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

MADGE  HOLLANDER  sat  in  a  room  in 
the  Hollander  mansion, — a  room  that  was 
boudoir,  study,  library,  and  general  work 
room,  for  she  was,  unlike  many  of  her  class,  a  very 
busy  woman.  Here,  at  an  elaborately  carved 
rosewood  desk,  a  relic  of  a  disrupted  court  of 
Europe,  she  sat  writing,  surrounded  by  all  the 
requisites  of  a  man  or  woman  of  business,  for  in 
this  room  she  directed  the  work  of  her  assistants, 
women,  who,  like  herself,  took  a  serious  view  of 
life  and  an  interest  in  unobtrusive  charity.  But  of 
this  the  world  knew  little  or  nothing,  for  Madge 
was  of  the  class  whose  names  did  not  head  sub 
scription  lists.  Here  also  she  received  the  personal 
appeals  of  the  very  humblest  and  the  poorest  peo 
ple — people  who  would  not  have  been  allowed  to 
enter  the  ordinary  home  of  the  wealthy  and  exclu 
sive  set  to  which  the  Hollanders  belonged. 

But  Madge  Hollander  was  not  an  ordinary 
woman,  even  measured  by  the  standard  of  those 
who  moved  in  the  same  sphere  of  social  life,  and, 
as  she  sat  at  her  desk,  paper,  ink-stand,  blotters, 
and  bundles  of  formidable  documents  filed  away 
with  womanly  precision,  there  was  nothing  to 
remind  one  of  opera  nights,  and  social  functions 

171 


TITO 

that  represent  the  more  arduous  duties  of  accepted 
society  leaders. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  and  she  had  nearly 
finished  her  daily  routine.  Her  brother  had  re 
turned  from  the  office  and  sauntered  into  the 
room. 

"Still  at  work,  Madgie?" 

"Hardly  at  work,"  she  replied,  without  looking 
up  from  the  papers  she  was  arranging.  "Just  fin 
ished."  Placing  the  papers  on  the  desk,  she  turned 
with  a  smile  to  her  brother.  He  was  very  dear  to 
her — her  eyes  spoke  her  feelings  and  spoke  them 
eloquently. 

"You  are  home  early,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "not  much  to  do  in  the  office, 
and  too  fine  a  day  to  remain  indoors.  I  walked 
home." 

"You  walked !  Truly  you  are  becoming  demo 
cratic, — and  sensible.  All  owing  to  my  very  good 
advice  and  example,"  she  laughed. 

"Do  I  receive  no  credit  for  the  good  sense  that 
comes  with  age?  I  am  no  longer  young,  and 
Madge  dear,  now  that  you  speak  of  it,  neither  are 
you,  though  I  believe  young  ladies  do  not  care  to 
be  reminded  of  that  fact." 

"Ned,  dear,  don't  refer  to  it.  I  feel  but  twenty, 
though,"  she  laughed,  "I  will  confess  to  a  few,  a 
very  few  years  more." 

"A  few !"  he  exclaimed.  "Tra  la !  But  it  would 
be  unkind  to  go  into  details.  With  the  work  you 
accomplish,  you  might  be  twenty  and  look  forty. 

172 


TITO 

I  will  admit,  though,  considering,  I  say  consider 
ing — well,  you  hold  your  own  very  well." 

"Thanks,  Ned  dear,  for  your  patronizing  con 
sideration." 

"Now,  Madgie,  don't  get  sarcastic  and  I'll  tell 
you  something.  I'm  going  in  for  philanthropy 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

She  held  up  her  hand  with  a  deprecating 
gesture. 

"Honor  bright,"  he  affirmed,  "I  have  made  a 
beginning.  I  have  entered  the  field  over  which 
you  claim  to  have  personal  supervision;  though  it 
is  not  quite  in  line  with  your  charity  work.  I  have 
made  a  find — a  discovery.  I  have  a  protege  who 
is  a  wonder,  with  a  voice  of  an  angel,  the  face  of  a 
cherub,  the  eyes  of  a  young  demon,  the  form  of 
one  of  the  classic  gods — and  he  sings!  Madgie, 
wait,  wait  till  you  hear  him  sing!  /  discovered 
him.  I'll  tell  you  about  it.  I  frequently  run  down 
for  lunch  to  a  modest  little  Italian  restaurant  on 
the  West  Side.  It's  a  nice  place,  though  a  bit 
Bohemian.  When  I  entered,  there  was  my  pro 
tege — this  young  Italian  god,  with  a  voice  that  is 
a  combination  of  cle  Reszke,  Van  Dyke,  and  Alva 
rez,  but  with  a  freshness  and  a  beauty  of  tone  that 
any  one  of  those  gentlemen,  did  he  ever  possess 
such  a  voice,  parted  with  long  before  he  saw  the 
shores  of  America.  There  he  stood,  singing  to 
the  accompaniment  of  a  harp  and  a  violin,  utterly 
unconscious  of  all  the  world,  his  eyes  turned 
heavenward,  and  oh,  Madge!  I  wish  you  could 
have  heard  him !  But  you  shall." 

173 


TITO 

"Where?"  she  asked,  laughing.  "Shall  I  go  to 
your  Bohemian  restaurant?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  "he  is  coming  here." 

"Now,  Ned,  in  what  new  folly  are  you  going  to 
indulge?  Why,  these  nomads — they  are  little 
gypsies,  and  they  steal.  I  believe  in  charity,  Ned 
dear,  but  you  will  observe  that  my  humble  efforts 
are  directed  to  the  relief  of  the  indigent  poor. 
Don't  bring  him  here,  that's  a  dear  boy;  that  sort 
is  all  well  enough  for  Bohemian  resorts,  but  they 
earn  sufficient  money,  and — oh,  you  men  do  have 
the  most  ridiculous  ideas  of  talent,  to  say  nothing 
of  art." 

"Well,  well,  well !  If  I  ever  heard  you  go  on  like 
that  before !  Madge,  if  you  are  not  getting  down 
right  practical!  If  you  had  put  such  common- 
sense  notions  into  practice  in  your  East  Side,  ill- 
advised,  charity  work,  I  shouldn't  have  had  to  part 
with  half  my  monthly  allowance  for  the  past  ten 
years.  Never  mind,  in  my  case  I'll  prove  you  in 
error.  And  his  name!  Such  a  wonderful  stage 
name!  What  do  you  guess  it  is?" 

"Pietro,  of  course,"  she  replied  with  a  laugh, 
"most  Italians  are  called  by  that  name." 

"Pietro,"  he  scoffed,  "no  protege  of  mine  should 
be  called  Pietro.  It  is  Tito!  Think  of  that  for  a 
name!  Think  of  that  name  for  the  stage — grand 
opera.  'First  appearance  of  the  new  tenor,  Tito.' 
And  I  discovered  him.  But,  unless  I  mistake,  one 
might  as  well  try  to  harness  lightning  as  to  attempt 
to  control  my  new-found,  Italian  god.  He  sings 
divinely,  but  he  has  a  vitriolic  tongue,  and  a  sur- 

174 


TITO 

passing  vocabulary  of  gutter  slang  which  'he  has 
acquired  with  an  ease  and  celerity  that  is  nothing 
short  of  wonderful,  for  he  has  been  in  this  country 
only  a  year.  He  can  rival  a  Bowery-born,  but  he 
hurls  it  at  you  with  a  delicious  accent  and  an  utter 
unconsciousness  of  its  offensiveness.  Truly,  he  is 
a  marvel, — but  you  shall  see.  He  is  coming  here 
to  sing,  that  is  if  he  keeps  his  word,  and  I  believe 
he  will,  for  I  promised  that  he  should  be  well  paid. 
He  condescendingly  assured  me  he  was  in  no  need 
of  funds,  and  he  sang  only  when  it  pleased  him. 
The  little  fiend !  He  patronized  me,  looked  me 
over  critically,  demanded  if  I  were  a  Noble,  and 
quietly  informed  me  that  he  would  know  the  aris 
tocrats,  as  he  was  of  them." 

"Ned,  dear,  how  you  do  go  on !  Take  my  advice 
and  leave  your  Bohemian  revelers  alone;  nothing 
good  comes  of  interesting  yourself  in  their  behalf." 

"How  wise  we  are!"  he  rejoined,  with  some 
warmth.  "Yet  this  boy  has  more  than  a  stomach 
— he  has  a  soul,  else  his  eyes  belie  him.  Wherein 
he  is  superior  to  your  East  Side  charity-grubbers. 
What  a  bewildering  amount  of  worldly  wisdom 
you  young  ladies  absorb  in  an  astonishingly  short 
time.  There's  the  bell!  That's  he  of  the  voice, 
the  eyes,  and  the  god-like  mien — don't  be  shocked, 
Madgie,  at  his  freedom  of  speech." 

Tito,  hat  in  hand,  stood  on  the  threshold,  smil 
ingly  complacent,  bowing  with  the  grace  of  a  court 
courier. 

It  was  obvious  that  he  had  been  to  some  pains 
to  make  himself  presentable,  for  his  clothing, 

175 


TITO 

though  shabby  in  the  extreme,  gave  evidence  of 
having  been  put  in  as  good  condition  as  the 
many  patches  would  admit.  He  reveled  in  a  pair 
of  new  shoes,  for  which  he  had  parted  with  his  last 
penny,  and  which,  unless  good  fortune  still  smiled 
upon  him  with  her  customary  grace,  meant  a  sup- 
perless  night  and  a  lodging  wherever  chance  led 
him.  His  hair  was  brushed  back  in  luxuriant 
waves,  and  his  hands  and  face,  scrupulously  clean, 
glowed  with  the  warmth  of  his  young  blood : — his 
eyes  proclaiming  that,  of  all  the  cares  in  the  world, 
not  one  was  his.  When  Tito  first  appeared  at  the 
door,  Madge  looked  at  him  with  surprised  admira 
tion,  then  flashed  a  look  of  pleased  approval  at  her 
brother.  The  boy's  frank,  open  countenance  ap 
pealed  to  her,  and  with  kindly  concern  and  evident 
pleasure  she  advanced  to  meet  him. 

"Tito,"  she  said,  with  the  intention  of  putting 
him  at  his  ease,  which  was  entirely  unnecessary,  for 
he  was  waiting  for  her  to  speak,  "my  brother  has 
told  me  of  you,  how  well  you  sing,  and  of  his  de 
sire  to  assist  you." 

"Sit  here,"  interrupted  Ned.  "Did  you  have 
trouble  in  finding  the  house?" 

"Oh,  no,"  answered  Tito.  "I  have  been  by  here 
many  times,  almost  every  day.  I  know  it,  this 
street,  and  well.  Here,  where  the  rich  live,  is  there 
one  whom  I  would  find.  Ah !  but  I  have  searched 
until  I  have  said, — 'it  is  not  here  he  lives/  and  I 
have  looked  until  my  eyes  have  refused  to  see. 
But  I  shall  find  him;  for  it  is  here  with  the  rich, 

176 


TITO 

with  the  aristocrats,  that  I  must  seek  him,  here, 
where  I,  too,  rightly  belong." 

Madge  and  her  brother  exchanged  glances 
which  said  plainly  that  what  they  had  listened  to 
were  but  boyish  vagaries,  perhaps  the  ramblings 
of  one  of  unbalanced  mind.  But  as  they  looked 
at  the  boy  with  his  fair  beauty,  his  calm,  dispas 
sionate  expression,  when  they  met  his  eyes,  which 
looked  into  their  own  with  self-confident,  unflinch 
ing  frankness,  they  realized  that  they  were  in  the 
presence  of  an  equal.  The  unconscious  bearing  of 
sturdy  independence  sat  well  upon  him;  they  re 
spected  what  he  had  said,  as  concerning  his  own 
affairs,  which  courtesy  and  good  breeding  forbade 
them  to  question. 

"Will  you  sing  for  my  sister,  Tito  ?  She  will  try 
to  accompany  you  on  the  piano." 

"Could  she  play  for  the  birds  to  sing?"  he  asked. 
It  was  the  Tito  of  Tuscany  that  spoke,  and  his  soft, 
musical  laugh  charmed  his  listeners.  "I  sing  as  do 
the  birds  of  the  fields,  of  the  woods, — wild,  un 
taught  ;  but  as  they  sing  in  dear  Italia,  will  I  sing, 
if  you  wish  it." 

Madge  sat  at  the  piano  and  ran  her  fingers 
lightly  over  the  keys.  At  the  sound  the  boy  stood 
as  one  inspired,  in  his  eyes  a  dreamy  expression 
that  smouldered  or  flashed  into  flame  as  she 
brought  forth  a  succession  of  harmonious  chords. 
He  began  the  song  he  sang  the  night  in  Florence 
when  he  stood  before  the  cafe,  and  Madge,  with  a 
master  touch,  and  the  intuition  of  the  true  musi 
cian,  followed  the  melody  and  wove  a  network  of 

177 


TITO 

harmonies  about  the  simple  air.  At  the  end  of  the 
verse  she  dashed  into  a  brilliant  interlude,  and  at 
its  finish,  Tito  sang  the  second  verse  as  he  had  the 
first,  but  with  an  added  abandon  which  thrilled  his 
hearers,  ending  in  a  clear,  soft,  well  sustained  tone 
that  died  almost  to  a  sigh. 

"Where  did  you  learn?"  Madge  asked,  as  he  fin 
ished. 

"But  I  have  never  learned,"  he  answered. 
"When  I  return  to  dear  Florence,  then  will  I  seek 
a  master  who  will  teach  me." 

"Will  you  study  here?"  Ned  asked.  "I  will  see 
that  you  have  the  best  instructor  in  the  city." 

"Here  in  New  York?"  he  laughed  softly.  "It  is 
not  for  that  I  came.  No.  Thou  art  good,  thou 
art  kind;  but  I  sing  only  when  I  am  hungry — 
when  I  would  eat.  Then  I  work,  when  I  have  that 
which  I  can  do,  and  with  the  money  I  live — and 
search  for  one  whom  I  cannot  find.  But,"  his 
eyes  flashed  and  his  tone  was  determined,  "I  will 
find  him,  else  would  I  not  care  to  live." 

They  noted  his  changed  expression,  the  tones  of 
his  voice,  and  they  realized  that,  whatever  the 
object  of  his  search,  it  had  power  to  stir  his  emo 
tions,  for  his  eyes  told  plainly  that  he  was  visibly 
moved. 

"But  you  will  let  me  help  you,"  Ned  asked. 

He  was  deeply  interested  in  the  boy,  and  real 
ized  that  his  youth,  his  ignorance  of  the  ways  of 
Americans,  their  manners,  their  customs,  placed 
him  at  a  disadvantage  that  would  be  difficult  to 
overcome. 

178 


TITO 

"In  all  the  world  there  is  no  one  who  can  help 
me,"  Tito  sadly  replied,  "no  one  to  feel  what  I 
feel,  no  one  to  understand,  even  if  he  cared.  Mine 
is  a  task  the  good  God  has  set  for  me.  It  is  for 
me  alone.  If  I  fail,  then  is  there  nothing  left  to 
live  for;  if  I  succeed — ah!  But  how  can  you 
knowT?  Wilt  them  have  me  sing  more?  After 
which  will  I  go." 

Again  he  sang,  but  the  memory  of  his  mission, 
his  vow,  was  with  him,  and  his  tones  were  as  the 
tones  of  one  who  has  lost  all — his  voice  now 
defiant,  ringing  with  passion,  again,  tender,  linger 
ing,  sighing  the  words  in  almost  an  excess  of 
pathos. 

He  did  not  hear  their  words  of  praise;  he  was 
eager  to  go,  and  a  dreamy  expression  in  his  eyes 
told  that  he  had  awakened  memories  that  were  of 
his  own  Italia. 

"Yes,  he  would  come  again  sometime,  and  the 
gentleman  could  find  him  often  at  the  cafe  where 
they  first  met,  for  the  proprietor  was  of  his  own 
province  in  Italia,  and  treated  him  kindly.  No,  he 
sang  for  the  lady — he  would  not  accept  money," 
and  penniless  and  with  slight  prospect  of  supper, 
he  departed. 

"And  this,"  he  mused  as  he  walked  toward  the 
park,  "is  where  7  should  live.  /,  Tito,  'Little 
Devil/  'Piccolo  d'Ignoti,'  who  have  a  father  who 
will  not  give  me  another  name.  Even  now  I  may 
be  passing  the  very  house — his  home — where  I 
should  live,  were  I  not  nameless.  I  tell  Thee,  oh, 
God,  Thou  hast  treated  me  most  unjustly.  What 

179 


have  I  done  to  Thee  ?  Naught !  But  if  I  ask  Thee 
to  guide  me  to  this  father,  Thou  dost  not  answer 
me.  Wherefore,  then,  should  I  not  revile  Thee? 
Thy  promises  Thou  dost  not  keep,  for  I  have  heard 
that  if  one  asks  of  Thee  a  favor,  Thou  wilt  grant 
it.  I  then  ask  that  Thou  leadest  me  to  this  beast, 
father.  Dost  Thou  answer  me?  No.  Wherefore 
there  is  no  God,  or  else  He  will  not  hear  for  that 
I  do  not  go  to  church  and  put  into  the  poor  box 
the  good  silver  with  which  I  bought  me  these  ill- 
fitting  shoes.  I  am  hungry,  aye,  even  now,  and 
I  ask  that  He  give  me  soup,  bread,  fruit,  yes,  and 
coffee,  for  I  am  very  hungry,  and  my  stomach  cries 
loudly.  Does  He  give  it  to  me?  Again  no! 
Wherefore,  if  there  is  a  God  for  all  the  world,  for 
Tito  there  is  no  God,  for  He  will  not  hear.  Then, 
'Little  Devil,'  must  thou  depend  on  thy  wits." 

He  had  entered  the  park,  and  sitting  on  one  of 
the  benches,  looked  upon  the  passing  crowd,  at  the 
moving  panorama,  for  the  wealthy  class  were  out 
in  numbers,  enjoying  their  daily  promenade.  One, 
old,  decrepit,  with  white  hair  and  ashen  face, 
with  eyes  that  saw  not  the  beauty  of  the  world, 
and  heart  that  rankled  with  its  bitterness,  rolled  by 
in  an  open  carriage,  propped  up  with  cushions — 
unconscious  that  a  fair-haired  lad — his  grandson, 
— was  sitting  on  a  bench  not  fifty  feet  away.  The 
boy  looked  with  pitying  eyes  at  the  pallid  face, — 
wondering  if  the  old  man  could  feel  the  glories  of 
the  late  afternoon,  that  sent  a  thrill  of  delight  to  his 
own  heart,  driving  from  him  all  desire  but  to  live 
and  to  drink  in  the  beauty  which  the  good  God 

1 80 


TITO 

gave  to  him — the  Tito  who  was  penniless,  supper- 
less. 

But  no  mysterious  whisper  told  the  boy  who  it 
was  that  he  had  watched  until  the  carriage  disap 
peared  in  the  park ;  and  Vanburg,  the  grandfather, 
in  moody  silence,  thought  of  the  son  whom  he  had 
wronged — the  son  who  would  never  return. 

A  policeman,  well  groomed,  well  fed  and  sleek, 
passed  by,  and  Tito's  glance  followed  him  with  a 
disdainful  scowl.  Tito  had  a  large  contempt  for 
these  guardians  of  the  public  weal,  and  a  flood  of 
invectives  rushed  to  his  lips. 

"The  lazy  swine !  They  are  well  fed  and  paid  by 
the  government,  then  they  make  the  poor  pay 
again.  Well — I  will  talk  to  the  gentleman  sitting 
on  the  next  bench.  He  looks  good-natured  and  it 
may  be  he  will  amuse  me.  And  to-night  I  shall  go 
to  the  place  of  Joe — he  who  sells  bad  wine,  where 
that  yellow  bearded  pig  struck  at  my  friend  with  a 
knife." 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  the  envelope  which 
Vanburg  had  given  him.  It  was  sealed.  He  felt 
it  gingerly,  and  a  quiet  laugh  caused  the  occupant 
of  the  adjoining  bench  to  regard  him  with  some 
little  curiosity  and  open  admiration. 

"Here,  in  this,  is  there  money.  I  am  rich  and, 
by  the  Madonna,  I  am  also  very  hungry.  My 
good  friend,  who  gave  it  to  me,  said  that  when  I 
had  reached  the  black  bread  and  water  stage  I  was 
to  open  it.  Well,  I  have  arrived, — but  once  before, 
in  Florence,  have  I  been  so  hungry.  There  are 
bank  bills  within."  He  held  the  envelope  to  the 

181 


TITO 

light.  "He  said  that  I  would  save  him  from  mis 
ery — from  hell.  I  wonder  what  he  meant?  At 
Joe's  he  drank  much  whiskey;  never  have  I  seen 
one  drink  more  in  so  short  a  time.  And  this  is  all 
mine  to  spend — as  I  will.  Many  good  dinners, 
with  wine.  Shall  I  open  it?  No,  that  will  I  not. 
He  had  no  money  the  night  I  went  to  his  house, 
and  he  was  so  kind.  I  know  we  shall  be  good 
friends,  for  he  was  sorry  when  I  came  away,  aye, 
of  that  I  am  sure ;  and  so  was  I.  No  one  else  cares 
for  the  'Little  Devil.'  And  I  have  not  seen  him  for 
many  days.  To-night  shall  I  go  to  the  place  of 
Joe — Death  House  Joe's,  and  should  I  not  find 
him,  I  know  well  where  he  lives,  and  if  he  has  no 
money  I  shall  say, — 'See,  my  good  friend,  I  have 
much  money ;  you  shall  take  it,  as  a  loan,  and  pay 
me  back — with  interest.' ' 

Pleased  with  his  own  adroitness,  he  laughed 
aloud.  For  the  moment  he  was  conscious  only  of 
the  blue  sky,  the  sighing  of  the  breeze,  and  he  felt 
as  if  he  were  alone  in  all  the  great  park.  The  gen 
tleman  on  the  next  bench  laughed  in  sympathy; 
but  at  that  moment  Tito's  thoughts  were  of  Van- 
burg-,  and  a  subdued  expression  stole  over  his  fea 
tures,  his  heart  proclaiming  that  a  new  born  inter 
est  had  come  into  his  life — an  interest  in  the  man 
who  had  befriended  him.  He  longed  to  see  him 
again ;  through  the  days  and  the  nights  since  they 
had  parted,  though  he  could  not  explain  the  emo 
tions  that  moved  him,  his  mind  had  constantly  re 
verted  to  the  gentle,  affectionate  care  this  lonely 
man  had  given  him.  Tito,  unconsciously,  was 

182 


TITO 

wrestling  with  the  problem  of  the  mystery  of  filial 
love.  Without  asking  himself  the  cause  which  led 
his  mind  into  these  channels,  his  thoughts  to  con 
stantly  dwell  on  the  deep,  though  well  modulated 
tones  of  the  man  whose  touch,  gentle  as  a 
woman's,  even  then  filled  him  with  a  thrill  of 
pleasure,  he  was  aware  of  a  growing  desire  to  see 
him  again.  His  desire  was  as  that  of  those  who 
love,  a  craving  that  is  only  satisfied  by  the  touch 
of  lips,  of  hands,  a  word  of  love  or  an  embrace, 
that  fills  the  heart  with  a  fulness  that  naught  else 
in  this  world  of  passion  can  do.  The  ties  of  con 
sanguinity,  the  natural  instinct  of  paternal  relation 
spoke  to  the  boy  a  language  universal,  unmistak 
able;  he  was  following  impulses  which  led  him  to 
the  portals  of  a  yearning  love,  of  a  life  that  he  had 
sworn  to  take.  Fate  had  devised  her  own  punish 
ment,  and  was  laying  the  foundation  for  such 
agony  as  the  heart  of  man  can  know,  unalterable 
in  its  working  out,  hopeless  in  its  ultimate  result. 
But  Tito  could  not  long  remain  under  the  cloud 
of  sorrowful  remembrance  which,  for  a  few  short 
moments,  seemed  to  have  taken  possession  of  him. 
He  rose,  and,  shaking  himself,  as  a  terrier  shakes 
the  water  from  its  wet  hide,  turned  to  the  gen 
tleman  sitting  on  the  adjoining  bench.  Consid 
ering  him  a  fit  subject  to  interrogate,  he  ap 
proached.  He  would  know  some  things  which, 
at  that  moment,  were  not  entirely  clear  to  his 
young  mind.  This  man  should  tell  him.  Who 
better?  Tito  looked  his  subject  over  with  discern 
ing  eye.  Yes,  he  believed  him  good-natured,  for 

183 


TITO 

his  face  was  amiable  in  its  expression,  and  his 
kindly  eyes  met  those  of  the  boy  in  a  quizzical, 
though  friendly  greeting. 

"Well,  young  man,  vou  have  been  enjoying 
yourself  hugely;  and  quite  alone.  It  is  good  to 
hear  you  laugh.  Surely,  you  haven't  a  care  in  the 
world." 

"No,"  replied  the  boy,  "I  haven't — for  the  mo 
ment.  Yet  unless  Heaven  comes  to  my  relief,  shall 
I  go  to  bed  supperless.  To  bed !"  His  laugh  rang 
out  clear,  rippling,  full  of  the  mirth  of  a  joyous 
heart.  "On  a  box  in  a  corner,"  he  continued 
when  he  found  breath  to  speak,  "or  a  bench  in  the 
park,  where  you  dream  of  downy  pillows  and  warm 
blankets."  Then,  with  a  sudden  seriousness, — 
"But  a  fat  policeman  will  stir  you  with  his  stick, 
for  the  government  doesn't  permit  you  even  to 
sleep  in  peace — unless  you  pay  toll." 

"Yet  you  laugfh  at  the  prospect?"  said  the  old 
man.  "It  does  not  seem  to  cause  you  annoyance." 

"Of  course  I  laugh,  for  it  is  so  droll.  Must  I 
cry  because  the  Fates  grant  me  no  better  bed? 
Pooh !  Not  I.  To-morrow  the  sun  will  be 
warmer,  brighter,  and,  if  Heaven  permits,  then 
shall  I  have  a  breakfast — when  I  earn  it." 

"Boy,  you  are  rich  in  the  philosophy  of  God's 
word." 

"Ah,  no!"  answered  Tito,  stoutly.  "I  am  rich 
only  in  what  the  world  has  taught  me.  Why 
should  I  not  know?  I  have  been  kicked  around  like 
a  ball  the  boys  play  with.  When  I  am  thrown 
about,  I  come  down  on  my  feet,  and  I  laugh  be- 

184 


TITO 

cause  the  world,  which  should  be  wise,  knows  not 
more  than  I." 

The  old  man  regarded  him  with  a  degree  of  awe 
in  which  respect  mingled.  "Who  was  this  youth 
with  the  heart  of  a  child  and  the  wisdom  of  a 
sage?"  With  his  eyes  on  the  boy  he  remained 
silent  for  a  full  half  minute. 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  asked,  abruptly, 
though  kindly. 

"What  matters  it?"  replied  the  boy.  Then,  not 
ing  the  questioner's  attitude  of  kindly  concern,  he 
added:  "Tito;  more  I  cannot  tell  thee.  Perhaps 
the  Fates  will  give  me  a  better  one." 

They  talked  for  some  time  and,  as  the  boy  was 
about  to  go,  the  old  man  offered  him  a  silver  coin. 
Tito  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"No,  I  thank  thee,"  he  said,  quietly. 

"For  your  supper,"  the  old  man  insisted. 

"Again,  I  thank  thee,"  replied  Tito,  firmly.  He 
stood  proudly  erect.  "Give  to  some  one  more  in 
need,  to  one  more  worthy.  Though  I  told  thee  my 
name  was  Tito,  I  have  another — 'Little  Devil.' 
That  thou  wilt  not  like.  Then,  it  is  good  to  do 
penance  and  starve  some  of  the  little  devil  out  of 
me!  Is  it  not  that  which  the  Church  teaches? 
Then  in  the  morning  should  I  be  nearer  .the  God 
whom  T  do  not  know.  Perhaps  the  penance  will 
please  Him  and  He  will  remember  that  there  is  a. 
young  Tito  who,  in  the  crowding  of  those  who  call 
loudly,  He  has  overlooked.  Madonna  Mia,  am  I 
so  small  that  this  God  they  praise  so  noisily  cannot 
see  me?" 

185 


TITO 

"I  do  not  believe,"  said  the  old  man,  gravely, 
"that  you  mean  the  disrespect  which  your  words 
imply.  Boy,  you  do  not  understand.  God  is  all 
kindness,  all  goodness." 

"Then  why  does  He  not  give  me  a  supper — also 
a  place  to  sleep?  When  I  find  both  will  I  believe 
in  Him." 

"He  has  offered  you  both  through  me." 

"That  is  the  charity  of  man — of  the  world.  Give 
it  to  those  who  need  it  more  than  I.  It  is  not  for 
me.  I  but  ask  a  chance  to  earn  my  supper." 

His  tones  rang  clear,  his  proud  bearing,  as  he 
turned  with  a  respectful  "Good-night,"  moved  the 
old  man  to  lift  his  hat. 

"Good  luck  go  with  you,  boy,  good-night." 

Tito  strode  away  and  the  crowd  swept  him  from 
sight. 


1 86 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

FOR  the  remainder  of  the  day  after  Tito  left 
him,  Vanburg  stayed  in  his  room,  silent, 
moody,  brooding  over  the  fate  that  had 
thrown  the  boy  in  his  way, — lonely  as  are  those 
in  whom  life  ceases  to  be  worth  an  effort,  or  hope 
to  offer  more  than  that  the  end  come  swiftly. 

The  past  week  had  been  to  him  one  of  joy,  why, 
he  could  explain  only  by  the  fact  that  the  boy's 
cheery  light-heartedness,  his  bright  face  and  rol 
licking  mirth  made  him  forget  himself  and  the  life 
that  he  led,  the  existence  that  he  hated.  With  the 
boy's  departure  something  seemed  to  go  out  of  his 
life.  In  the  short  time  that  Tito  had  been  with 
him,  Vanburg  had  learned  to  regard  him  with  a 
feeling  akin  to  love — a  love  that  longed  for  a  re 
turn  of  affection,  for  someone  to  whom  he  could 
cling,  who  would  look  upon  him  as  part  of  his  life, 
one  who  would  create  in  him  a  desire  to  turn  from 
the  dissipation  that  was  a  torment  to  him — dissi 
pation  that  gave  him  hours  of  forgetfulness,  of  mad 
delirium,  followed  by  remorse,  overpowering, 
heart-sickening. 

He  sat  by  the  table,  one  hand  resting  upon  it, 
the  picture  of  dejection. 

"Why  did  he  come  into  my  life  ?"  he  asked  with 
savage  emphasis,  "to  stir  within  me  desires  that  I 

187 


believed  dead,  but  that  were  only  smothered  by 
the  ashes  of  hopes  that  were  buried,  longings  that 
had  been  stilled,  desires  as  bitter  as  dead  sea  fruit. 
For  a  day,  a  week,  the  blaze  sprang  to  life,  to  tor 
ment,  to  laugh  at  me,  then, — ah,  God!  What  am 
I  saying?  I  am  mad!"  He  laughed  shrilly.  It 
was  unnatural,  sickening  mirth,  for  it  was  sepul 
chral,  inhuman.  "But  it  is  not  the  madness  of 
drink — that  compared  with  it  is  sanity.  Drink — 
ha!  I  have  not  drank  for  one  whole  week — one 
week  in  fifteen  years.  And  this  boy !  Had  he  the 
power  to  still  the  craving,  to  quench  the  thirst 
that,  before  he  came,  was  insatiable?  Yet  for  one 
week  have  I  been  sober — I,  who  have  wallowed  in 
the  very  depths  of  depravity.  For  one  week, 
sober!  To  what  end?  For  what  purpose?  To 
let  my  hope  rise,  like  noonday  heat,  only  to  again 
have  the  night  chill  strike  to  my  heart,  to  again 
realize  that  I  am  alone,  alone,  alone.  Aye,  as  one 
in  a  desert  is  alone,  as  one  adrift  in  midocean,  buf 
feted  by  every  changing  wind  until,  weary,  heart 
sick,  he  ceases  to  struggle,  and  is  left,  a  derelict,  to 
be  tossed  on  a  sea  of  despair.  Bettina,  darling,  in 
the  boy's  voice,  I  heard  an  echo  of  thine.  Could 
it  only  have  been  true — only  true !  It  is  too  late 
to  work,  even  if  I  had  it  to  do,  but  at  Death  House 
Joe's  they  are  always  working.  There,  for  an 
hour,  a  day,  a  night,  they  cure  minds  of  disease, 
bodies  of  all  earthly  ills,  and  souls — bah!  that  is 
not  their  trade.  Each  man  to  his  profession — 
theirs  is  an  earthly,  not  a  heavenly  one.  Joe,  of  the 
House  of  Death,  you  have  much  to  answer  for, 

188 


TITO 

much  more  that  you  cannot  answer.  What  will 
you  say  when  you  are  placed  at  the  bar  of  the 
highest  court?  That  you  cured  diseases  of  the 
mind,  strangled  sorrow  for  a  time,  or  stifled  grief 
for  a  night  ?  Will  you  cry  out  that  all  who  carried 
trouble  to  your  door  left  it  without,  that  yours  was 
a  house  of  joy,  of  forgetfulness  ?  Aye,  that  you 
may  with  truth,  for  yours  is  a  trade  that  caters  to 
the  earthly  present,  not  the  spiritual  future. 
Where,"  he  said,  abruptly,  "can  McGlennon  be? 
For  three  days  I  have  not  seen  him — I  will  go  to 
him,  where,  on  the  wharf,  I  shall  laugh  at  him,  and 
ask  him  if  the  boxes  have  grown  lighter,  and  to 
night,  with  the  money  that  is  left,  we  will  revel  in 
the  remembrance  of  times  that  were,  when  we 
were  very  much  alive.  Now, — now  we  are  both 
dead,  dead ;  only  the  animal  life  in  us  remains." 

An  hour  later  he  stood  upon  the  wharf  where 
McGlennon  had  been  employed.  He  was  not 
there,  nor  had  he  been  there  for  several  days.  No 
one  could  give  him  information,  and,  knowing 
where  the  Scotchman  lived,  he  determined  to  call 
at  his  home. 

He  rapped  at  the  door  and  it  was  opened  al 
most  immediately  by  McGlennon's  daughter,  Bill 
— her  eyes  swollen  from  weeping,  her  voice  falter 
ing  as  she  bade  him  enter. 

Stepping  into  the  room  he  stood  face  to  face 
with  Madge  Hollander. 

Though  her  surprise  was  great,  Vanburg  was 
even  more  astonished.  He  knew  she  recognized 
him  and,  with  bowed  head,  and  face  scarlet  with 

189 


TITO 

mortification,  he  stood  before  her,  waiting  for  her 
to  speak. 

"Mr.  Vanburg,  Horace!"  she  exclaimed,  ap 
proaching  him  with  outstretched  hand,  "I  must 
admit  my  surprise  at  seeing  you;  the  pleasure  I 
cannot  express  in  words." 

With  downcast  eyes  he  remained  silent,  not  dar 
ing  to  trust  his  voice,  and,  for  the  instant,  his  em 
barrassment,  his  humiliation,  covered  him  with 
such  confusion  that  he  did  not  see  her  extended 
hand.  Then,  slowly  raising  his  head,  he  took  her 
hand  in  his,  and  with  an  effort  controlled  his  voice. 

"Madge,  I  am  sorry  that  you  are  here,  sorry  to 
meet  you  in  my  degradation.  I  feared  something 
was  amiss  when  I  could  not  find  McGlennon.  Let 
me  go  as  I  came,  and  forget  that  you  saw  me." 

Her  fingers  tightened  about  his  to  prevent  him 
from  carrying  his  purpose  into  effect. 

"No,"  she  replied  with  determination,  "that  I 
will  not  allow.  You  are  right  in  your  conjectures 
as  to  Mr.  McGlennon  ;  he  has  met  with  misfortune, 
but  we  will  discuss  that  later.  Wilhelmina,  dear, 
will  you  leave  us  alone  for  a  little  while?  I  will 
call  you  before  I  go." 

McGlennon's  daughter  entered  the  adjoining 
room,  and  Madge,  motioning  Vanburg  to  be 
seated,  placed  her  chair  beside  the  table  near  him. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  tremulously,  "tell  me  about 
yourself." 

When  he  spoke  his  voice  was  husky,  and  emo 
tion  nearly  overcame  him.  He  had  always  regarded 
the  woman  before  him  with  reverence,  as  a  being 

190 


TITO 

far  removed,  as  one  of  whom  he  was  unworthy. 
Of  all  his  former  friends,  she  was  the  person  he 
most  dreaded  to  see,  fearing  to  meet  the  frank, 
fearless  eyes  that  were  now  fixed  upon  him,  in 
which  kindly  concern,  even  affectionate  regard, 
mingled  with  the  pity  that  she  could  not  hide. 

''There  is  nothing  to  tell,  nothing  you  do  not 
already  know,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  Then  with 
an  attempt  at  his  old-time  vivacity,  "You  see  me  as 
I  am.  Surely  tongue  could  not  speak  more  elo 
quently." 

"You  do  not  know  how  it  pains  me  to  find  you 
as — as  you  are.  You  cannot  realize  how  sorry  I 
am."  Her  voice  betrayed  her  emotion,  her  eyes 
told  that  she  was  deeply  moved,  and  her  expres 
sion  of  kindly  concern,  of  pity,  cut  him  as  words 
had  not  the  power  to  do. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "I  know  what  you  feel — 
the  humiliation  that,  in  me,  has  not  survived  the 
past  years ;  but  when  pride  could  not  arrest  me  in 
my  downward  course,  other  emotions  were  of  no 
avail,  and  I  put  them  from  me." 

"Horace,  it  is  not  too  late.  You  do  not  know 
how  your  father  grieves — how  he  longs  for  your 
return,  your  forgiveness  for  the  terrible  mistake, 
the  injustice  that  was  done  you.  When  I  see  him 
he  talks  of  you  constantly." 

He  laughed  softly,  but  with  a  bitterness  un 
speakable. 

"Madge,  as  a  little  girl,  you  were  very  dear  to 
me;  as  a  woman,  I  revere  you;  but  you  cannot 
understand.  I  know  that  you  have  come  in  con- 

191 


TITO 

tact  with  poverty,  degradation;  you  have  sought 
it  in  your  efforts  to  do  good,  and  you  have  suc 
ceeded  where  many,  many  others  have  failed.  But 
there  are  levels  which  you  have  never  reached — 
God  grant  that  you  never  will.  I  have  found  that 
level,  that  inner  circle  where  he  who  enters  may 
never  return,  for  the  passport  is  the  surrender  of 
body  and  soul,  hopes  of  the  present  are  left  behind, 
future  there  is  none; — nothing  but  a  life  that  is 
a  blank." 

She  was  grieved,  shocked,  the  more  so,  because 
she  realized  the  mental  capacity,  the  determination 
of  the  man  to  whom  she  listened;  and  she  knew 
that  no  word  of  hers  could  turn  him  from  his  pur 
pose.  In  his  present  state  of  mind,  she  deemed  it 
best  to  discuss  other  subjects,  yet  she  did  not  de 
spair,  and  she  again  returned  to  the  subject  of 
McGlennon's  trouble. 

"Mr.  McGlennon  has  met  with  misfortune,"  she 
said.  "It  is  better  that  we  speak  of  it  when  his 
daughter  is  not  here.  She,  poor  child,  is  quite 
heart-broken.  Her  father  is  under  arrest.  There 
was  some  terrible  affair  where  a  knife  was  used. 
Some  poor  unfortunate,  a  man  who  was  with  Mc 
Glennon  at  the  time  it  occurred,  is  dangerously,  if 
not  fatally  wounded." 

"McGlennon,"  exclaimed  her  listener,  "under 
arrest?"  His  tone  was  incredulous.  "A  knife,  did 
you  say?  It  is  impossible !  He  is  too  good  a  man 
and,  notwithstanding  his  habits,  too  much  of  a 
gentleman  to  use  one.  There  is  some  mistake. 
Tell  me  the  particulars." 

192 


TITO 

"I  have  not  seen  him,  but  from  what  I  can  gather 
from  his  daughter,  he  was  returning  home  late  at 
night  with  a  companion.  They  were  followed  by 
two  men,  one  of  whom  was  known  to  McGlennon. 
He  was  one  Tinch,'  " — Vanburg  smiled — "a  noto 
rious  fellow,  who  believed,  McGlennon  says,  that 
his  companion  was  a  friend  of  his — a  Mr.  Kent." 
Again  Vanburg  smiled.  "The  two  men  attacked 
them  in  a  darkened  locality,  and  McGlennon's 
companion  received  wounds  which,  though  meant 
for  another,  may  prove  fatal.  Being  unconscious 
the  greater  part  of  the  time,  he  can  tell  little  or 
nothing  of  the  affair.  McGlennon  was  arrested, 
and  poor  Wilhelmina's  heart  is  nearly  broken." 

''Poor  Mac,"  said  Vanburg  under  his  breath. 
"He,  too,  must  suffer  for  me.  Have  any  efforts 
been  made  in  his  behalf?  But  I  need  not  ask. 
I  know  you  have  done  all  that  is  possible.  Poor 
little  Bill !  It  is  she  who  will  suffer  most." 

"I  have  engaged  counsel,"  said  Madge,  quietly, 
"the  best  that  can  be  procured.  It  seems  that  if 
this  man,  Tinch,'  could  be  found,  it  would  go  far 
toward  clearing  the  matter  up." 

"Leave  that  to  me,"  said  Vanburg  in  a  confident 
tone.  "I  give  you  my  word  to  produce  him  when 
he  is  wanted." 

"Do  you  think  you  can  assist  the  officers  in  find 
ing  him?" 

Vanburg  smiled  at  her  ingenuousness. 

"I  could,"  he  answered,  "but  I  will  not.  I  shall 
find  him,  I  promise  you." 

"But  he  is  a  dangerous  character,"  she  insisted. 
193 


TITO 

"Yes,"  he  agreed,  "in  a  sense,  he  is;  but  he  is 
one  who  strikes  from  behind;  they  are  seldom  to 
be  feared.  Rest  easy ;  before  to-morrow  morning, 
I  shall,  unless  I  very  much  mistake,  hand  him  over 
to  the  authorities.  When  is  the  hearing?" 

"I  understand  it  was  continued  until  to-morrow. 
I  shall  go  with  Willie.  She  has  not  slept  since  this 
unfortunate  occurrence,  and  I  have  been  with  her 
constantly." 

"My  dear  Madge,  it  is  not  for  me  to  thank  you, 
that  shall  be  for  the  father;  yet  let  me  add  my 
word  of  praise,  of  gratitude  for  your  goodness.  I 
should  not  ask,  it  would  be  presumption,  but  tell 
me  of  Ned, — of  your  friends." 

His  request  again  suggested  the  subject  that 
was  uppermost  in  her  mind,  and  after  talking  of 
her  brother,  her  home  life,  she  again  returned  to 
the  discussion  of  Vanburg's  position  and  the  bril 
liant  prospects  he  had  surrendered. 

"Horace,"  she  said  sadly,  "you  will  listen  to  me, 
and  think  of  the  future  that  might  have  been  yours, 
that  may  yet  be  yours." 

"I  know  what  you  would  say.  I  can  anticipate 
it  almost  to  a  word.  Think  you  that  I  have  not 
considered  it, — have  I  not  thought  until  madness 
seemed  to  beckon  to  me,  until  I  longed  for  my 
mind  to  give  way  and  become  a  blank  ?  Can  you 
understand  what  the  years  have  been  to  me — the 
days,  the  nights?  No,  no!  you  cannot,  you 
cannot!  But  it  is  too  late!  The  road  I  follow 
leads  nowhere.  Once  become  entangled  in  the 
labyrinth  of  its  byways,  there  is  no  turning  back. 

194 


TITO 

Madgie,"  his  voice  was  tender,  entreating,  "you 
are  to  forget  that  you  met  me  to-day,  forget  me 
as  I  am,  forever  to  forget — you  are  to  remember 
me  as  I  was,  for  now  I  am  as  one  dead,  dead  to 
those  whom  I  called  friends — and  loved." 

She  did  not  reply.  Tears  glistened  in  her  eyes, 
and  when  his  voice  died  to  a  whisper,  her  glance 
fell  that  he  might  not  see  how  his  words  had  af 
fected  her.  She  could  not  deceive  herself  longer, 
for  the  agony  that  filled  her  cried  aloud  that  she 
loved  him — loved  him  as  women  of  her  steadfast 
principles  and  lofty  nature  love — unchanging, 
with  a  loyalty  that  even  the  years  of  his  degrada 
tion  had  not  the  power  to  alter.  Neither  spoke 
again  but,  for  an  instant,  her  hand  lay  in  his. 

"Good  bye,  Madge,"  he  said,  "and  God  bless 
you." 

Hurriedly  he  ran  down  the  stairs  and  through 
the  court  to  the  street. 


195 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THAT  night  Vanburg  started  out  on  his  quest 
of  "Micky  de  Pinch."  Knowing  his  haunts, 
feeling  certain  that  within  a  few  hours,  if  his 
man  were  in  the  city,  he  could  locate  him,  he  went 
about  his  task  leisurely,  with  no  thought  for  his 
personal  safety  and  a  determination  that,  before 
morning,  "Micky"  would  be  in  the  hands  of  the 
authorities. 

Vanburg  was  acquainted  with  the  habits  of  many 
of  the  craft  of  which  "Micky"  was  an  adept.  He 
had  moved  much  among  them,  enjoyed  their  confi 
dences,  knew  their  haunts,  and  from  long  observa 
tion,  and  knowledge  of  the  inner  workings  of  the 
police,  he  was  satisfied  that  it  would  be  unsafe  to 
call  upon  them  for  assistance  in  apprehending  the 
"Pinch."  He  felt  assured  that  if  they  became 
aware  of  the  fact  that  the  thief  was  wanted,  by 
means  known  only  to  the  officers,  the  man  he 
sought  would  be  notified,  and  his  escape  be  a 
matter  of  certainty. 

He  went  at  once  to  Death  House  Joe's,  and 
here, — it  was  his  first  visit  since  his  meeting  with 
Tito, — he  ordered  whiskey,  drinking  three  or  four 
times  in  quick  succession. 

Since  his  interview  with  Madge  he  had  been  de 
pressed  as  he  had  not  been  in  years.  She  had 

196 


TITO 

brought  before  him  memories  that  rankled,  and  he 
longed  to  forget  in  the  delirium  of  drink  what  his 
encounter  with  her  called  to  mind.  Though  know 
ing  the  "Pinch"  was  far  too  crafty  to  venture  here 
if  he  believed  the  man  he  had  attacked  was  not  the 
one  he  intended  to  knife,  yet  he  was  satisfied  he 
would  learn  of  the  "Pinch's"  whereabouts,  or  pick 
up  a  clew  that  would  lead  to  the  discovery  of  his 
hiding  place.  His  ear  was  alert  and  it  was  not  long 
before  his  patience  was  rewarded :  the  "Pinch's" 
name  was  mentioned,  and  rising,  he  lighted  a  cigar 
at  the  counter  and  took  a  seat  nearer  the  speakers. 

"Micky  is  too  fly  to  be  caught,"  one  of  the 
speakers  was  saying.  "D'yer  t'ink  he's  on  clis  beat 
an'  don'  know  what's  goin'  on?  'De  Pinch's'  ears 
grow  down  ter  d'  groun'.  He  can  hear  a  whisper 
in  der  front  office.  Oh,  he's  got  er  pull,  he  has! 
Why,  de  roundsmen  isn't  in  it  wid  'im!  Not  fer  a 
minit !  He  wouldn't  bodder  talkin'  to  'em  !  It's 
th'  captain  wid  'em !  Well,  'de  Pinch'  always  was 
a  lucky  guy.  Dey  ain't  wantin'  'im  very  bad. 
He's  down  ter  Kelly's  workin'  an  'easy  t'ing'  he 
picked  up." 

Having  obtained  all  the  information  needed, 
Vanburg  went  quietly  out  and,  as  it  was  now  mid 
night,  hurried  on  to  Kelly's,  a  resort  of  the  worst 
character  in 'the  city,  to  make  sure  that  his  man 
would  not  elude  him. 

He  knew  the  place  well.  There  were  two  en 
trances,  one  in  the  rear,  leading  to  an  alley-way. 
Whoever  left  the  place  must  go  by  way  of  the 
street,  and  if  the  "Pinch"  was  in  the  saloon,  Van- 

197 


TITO 

burg  determined  to  wait  outside  until  his  man 
appeared. 

Looking  over  the  swinging  door  into  the  saloon 
and  not  seeing  the  "Pinch,"  he  entered.  Standing 
at  the  end  of  the  bar  by  the  rear  door,  he  ordered 
a  drink,  and  his  smile  of  satisfaction  was  in  answer 
to  the  voice  of  the  "Pinch,"  exhorting  his  "easy 
thing"  to  beware  of  the  light-fingered  gentry  of 
the  city. 

"Say,"  Micky's  voice  was  tearful,  "it  ain't  safe  to 
be  found  asleep  wid  de  roll  yer  a  luggin',  yer  ought 
to  leave  it  at  home  wid  th'  missus  ter  take  care  of. 
The  guys  in  the  profesh'  don't  play  on  th'  fair." 

Vanburg  heard  a  maudlin  response.  "I  can't 
act  as  guardian  to  that  poor  fool,"  he  muttered. 
"My  first  duty  is  to  McGlennon.  Should  I  go  in, 
the  chances  are  that  Micky  will  not  attend  the 
hearing  to-morrow,  no,"  he  said,  glancing  at  the 
clock,  "to-day — it  is  most  one  o'clock;  though  I 
could  save  the  drunken  lout  from  being  robbed. 
However,  I'll  take  a  look  at  him,  and  return  him 
his  money,  if  I  can  find  him,  for  later,  guileless 
'Micky'  will  deliver  it  to  me,  though  at  the  moment 
he  may  not  believe  it." 

Sauntering  by  the  rear  door,  he  could  see  the 
"Pinch"  and  his  victim,  "Micky"  doing  the  honors 
by  helping  his  companion  to  whiskey  from  a  bottle 
on  the  table.  Vanburg  lighted  a  cigar,  then  going 
out  of  the  saloon,  waited  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  street,  from  where  he  could  command  a  view 
of  the  rear  entrance.  He  was  certain  what  would 
happen; — it  was  a  process  old  enough  to  have 

198 


TITO 

warned  even  those  whose  brains  were  muddled  by 
drink. 

It  was  closing  time,  there  was  a  scuffle  in  the 
room  at  the  rear  of  the  saloon.  "Micky's"  victim 
was  thrown  violently  into  the  alley-way,  the  lights 
were  extinguished,  and  the  "Pinch"  hurriedly  leav 
ing  the  saloon  by  the  front  door,  walked  rapidly 
east. 

Entering  a  semi-respectable  tenement  building, 
the  outer  door  of  which  was  open,  the  "Pinch" 
hurriedly  mounted  the  stairs,  closely  followed  by 
Vanburg.  The  thief's  tastes  were,  comparatively, 
luxurious,  and  he  scorned  the  abodes  of  the  ordi 
nary  thief,  believing  that  his  standing  in  the  profes 
sion  called  for  an  outward  show  in  keeping  with 
his  unquestioned  skill. 

What  took  place  after  he  entered  the  building, 
occurred  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time. 

After  mounting  the  stairs,  he  went  through  the 
darkened  hall  to  the  rear,  opened  a  door  and  struck 
a  match,  leaving  the  door  ajar  while  he  lighted  the 
gas. 

In  this  "Micky"  was  unwise,  for  when  he  turned 
to  close  the  door  Vanburg  stood  within  the  room, 
the  door  shut  and  locked,  the  key  in  his  pocket. 
At  the  first  flash  of  light  Vanburg  shot  a  quick 
glance  about  the  room, — the  one  article  of  interest 
to  attract  his  attention  being  a  revolver  on  the 
dresser,  almost  within  arm's  reach,  but  nearer  to 
him  than  to  "Micky,"  who  stood  as  one  stupefied, 
under  the  gas  jet  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 

Instantly  Vanburg  had  possession  of  the  re- 
199 


TITO 

volver,  which  he  noted,  with  satisfaction,  was 
loaded  in  every  chamber. 

Now  "Micky"  was  adroit,  quick-witted,  and 
years  of  practice  had  trained  him  to  act  with 
promptness  and  certainty:  qualifications  which  had 
placed  him  in  the  front  rank  of  his  trade.  His  alert 
mind,  and  ever  ready  wit,  grasped  the  situation  in 
stantly,  and  he  realized  that,  in  the  dark,  with  his 
trusty  knife,  the  chances  were  as  ten  to  one  in  his 
favor.  When  he  had  turned  and  confronted  Van- 
burg,  involuntarily  he  had  advanced  a  step  toward 
him,  but  when  Vanburg  grasped  the  revolver,  he 
stood  motionless.  He  then  directed  a  quick 
glance  at  the  light,  but  his  visitor  divined  the 
thief's  intention,  and  the  spring  he  was  about  to 
make  to  turn  off  the  gas  was  arrested  by  the  click 
of  the  hammer  of  the  weapon  in  Vanburg' s  hand. 

"Micky,"  his  hand  in  the  air,  his  eyes  blazing, 
his  face  livid,  was  unable,  through  rage,  to  control 
his  utterance.  Vanburg  smiled,  and  with  the  re 
volver  covering  the  man  before  him,  motioned  him 
to  step  back. 

"I  know  it's  unfair  to  take  this  advantage  of 
you,  'Micky,'  "  he  said.  It  was  only  with  an  effort 
he  could  refrain  from  laughing  at  the  thief's  rage 
and  chagrin.  "It's  also  a  low  down  act  to  come 
into  a  man's  private  room  without  being  invited. 
I  trust  you  will  waive  these  little  breaches  of  good 
breeding.  The  fact,  is,  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you,  and 
I  knew  you  were  not  so  kindly  disposed  toward 
me  as  formerly.  I  don't  trust  you  as  I  once  did, 
'Micky.'  I  must,  therefore,  ask  you  to  take  that 

200 


TITO 

knife  out  of  your  hip  pocket  and  lay  it  on  the 
table." 

"What  ter  hell  d'yer  t'ink,  I'm  a  jay?" 

"Right  on  the  table,  'Micky,'  "  said  Vanburg  in 
a  quiet  tone,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  "Pinch." 

The  thief's  face  was  convulsed,  the  muscles 
twitched,  but  he  had  a  large  respect  for  the  man 
who  smiled  with  quiet  self-confidence,  and  a  whole 
some  fear  of  the  revolver,  which  he  had  reason  to 
believe  was  in  perfect  working  order.  Reluctantly 
he  laid  the  knife  on  the  table. 

"And,  'Micky,' '  said  Vanburg  soothingly, 
"while  you  are  about  it,  you  might  place  that  roll 
of  bills  beside  the  knife — the  money  you  were 
thoughful  enough  to  take  from  your  latest  'find' 
this  morning  at  Kelly's.  I  will  relieve  you  of  the 
responsibility  of  taking  charge  of  it  and  see  that 
it  is  returned  to  its  owner." 

The  "Pinch"  glared.  "Say — "  he  began,  chok 
ing  with  rage. 

"On  the  table,"  smiled  Vanburg. 

With  an  oath  the  money  was  thrown  on  the 
table. 

"Now,"  came  the  quiet  command,  "I  will 
trouble  you  to  stand  as  far  back  as  the  wall.  You 
are  of  an  impetuous  disposition,  'Micky,'  and,  can 
didly,  you'll  bear  watching,  that  is,  when  there  is 
money  in  sight.  Right  over  there.  That's  it.  Be 
docile  and  we'll  get  on  much  better." 

The  "Pinch,"  with  muttered  oaths,  did  as  di 
rected,  and  Vanburg,  after  possessing  himself  of 
knife  and  money,  returned  to  his  former  position, 

201 


TITO 

taking  care  that  the  impulsive  "Micky"  should 
always  face  the  muzzle  of  the  revolver. 

"Now,"  Vanburg's  tone  was  conciliatory,  "you 
will  please  listen  to  me  attentively.  We  have  had 
one  or  two  little  scrimmages  before.  You  may  re 
member."  "Micky"  did  remember,  his  eyes  said 
so  almost  audibly.  "Well,  heretofore  we  have 
settled  our  little  differences  fairly,  each  having 
an  equal  opportunity,  each  of  us  relying  on  his 
own  merits.  Isn't  that  so?" 

"Say,  what  th'  devil's  all  dis  about?"  "Micky's" 
eyes  were  bloodshot,  his  voice  husky.  "Yer've  got 
th'  stuff  I  took  from  de  bloke,  why  don't  yer  take 
a  sneak?  Yer  can't  pinch  any  more  from  me." 

"Don't  be  impatient,"  was  the  reply.  It  was  not 
the  words  which  enraged  "Micky,"  it  was  the  tan 
talizing  smile,  and  the  calm,  unruffled  air  of  his 
questioner  that  filled  the  thief  with  murderous  de 
sires.  "As  I  was  saying,"  Vanburg  continued,  "we 
have  had  our  little  differences,  and  I  have  always 
endeavored  to  be  fair  with  you,  for  you  fight  well, 
though  clumsily,  and  notwithstanding  that  you 
have  an  exceeding  fondness  for  using  the  knife, — 
always,  however,  from  behind.  That  is  a  practice 
of  which  you  should  break  yourself.  It  is  a  vul 
gar  habit,  much  too  low  for  a  gentleman  of  your 
prominence." 

"What  are  yer  givin'  me?"  demanded  the 
"Pinch."  "Are  yer  gettin'  over  the  jims,  or 
what?" 

"My  dear  'Micky,'  we  are  to  talk  till  morning, 
that  is,  as  you  are  not  in  a  particularly  amiable 

202 


TITO 

mood,  I  shall  endeavor  to  do  the  talking.  As  my 
subject,  so  far,  doesn't  seem  to  awaken  the  interest 
in  you  I  could  desire,  I  will  change  to  another.  Let 
me  see !  Ah !  I  have  it !  You  may  remember  that 
some  two  months  ago  there  was  a  break  up  in 
Westchester  County  ?  Am  I  right  as  to  the  time  ?" 

"Micky"  glared,  but  refused  to  reply. 

"I  think  I  am  correct,"  Vanburg  continued,  his 
tone  one  that  would  wring  confidence  from  a  stone. 
<ll  fix  the  date  by  the  attempt  to  rob  a  national 
bank  the  same  night.  This,  however,  failed,  but 
the  gang  were  more  successful  at  the  local  post- 
office;  their  only  reward  postage  stamps.  Think  of 
it!  Penny  stamps!  'Micky,'  I  wouldn't  have 
believed  it  of  you." 

"Say  now,  look  'ere!  I'm  sick  of  this,  I  am. 
What's  yer  lay?  Yer've  got  the  'green'  that  I 
pinched  at  Kelly's,  what  more  do  yer  want?  If 
yer  don't  quit  and  git,  I'll  make  a  holler!  D'yer 
hear?  a  holler,  an'  I'll  have  every  bloomin'  cop 
in  the  precinct  'ere  in  five  minutes.  I've  got  a  pull 
that'll  get  me  out  all  right;  now  jest  notice  that 
an'  leave  me  me  tools  an'  git  out." 

"What,  'Micky,'  make  a  noise,  a  'holler'  as  you 
say?  With  the  postage  stamps  in  this  room?" 
"Micky"  winced.  "The  police  would  search  this 
very  comfortable  apartment,  and  the  stamps — 
that's  a  ten  to  twenty  years'  offence.  No,  'Micky,' 
you'll  keep  quiet.  It's  most  morning.  Later  in 
the  day  I  shall  ask  you  to  take  a  walk  with  me." 

Throughout  the  night  Vanburg  talked  banter- 
ingly  or  sat  silent,  never  moving  his  eyes  from  the 

203 


TITO 

man  who  watched  for  an  unguarded  moment  to 
spring  upon  him.  But  the  thief's  respect  for  the 
courage  of  his  captor  guided  his  judgment,  for  he 
regarded  Vanburg  with  fear  and  a  degree  of  awe. 
The  ever  ready  revolver  lent  him  a  caution  which 
controlled  his  impulse  to  escape,  and  the  night 
wore  away.  Toward  morning,  Vanburg,  after  a 
long  silence,  addressed  his  prisoner. 

"Now,  'Micky,'  you  are  going  out  for  a  walk, 
and  before  we  start,  a  word  of  advice.  I  know 
something  of  these  little  affairs  up  country.  Your 
reputation  would  not,  should  you  come  before  a 
criminal  judge,  assist  you.  It  is,  in  fact,  odorifer 
ous.  The  postoffice  break  is  good  for  a  trip  up  the 
river.  I  can  furnish  all  the  evidence  necessary. 
If  you  try  to  bolt — well,  up  the  river  you  go.  You 
will  now  kindly  walk  two  paces  in  advance  of  me 
to  the  street.  I  will  direct  you  as  we  go,  and 
'Micky,'  to  quench  any  desire  of  making  a  break, 
pray  allow  me  to  add  that  at  one  time  I  was  the 
champion  sprinter  in  the  state  of  New  York,  also 
in  some  of  the  eastern  states,  where  larger  schools 
flourish.  I  have  not  forgotten  the  trick.  This 
may  sound  boastful,  my  friend,  if  so,  forgive  me; 
I  offer  it  as  a  morsel  of  precautionary  advice.  Now 
come." 

Within  twenty  minutes  "Micky  de  Pinch"  was 
in  the  hands  of  the  authorities. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  hearing  began.  Madge  Hol 
lander,  with  Wilhelmina,  sat  beside  McGlennon's 
counsel.  Vanburg  was  to  testify,  and  sat  in  the 
rear  of  the  room.  When  the  judge  entered,  Van- 

204 


TITO 

burg,  with  a  shudder,  recognized  an  acquaintance 
of  his  early  life,  a  member  of  his  club,  a  gen 
tleman  who  had  been  identified  with  his  father  in 
many  business  transactions.  How  could  he  meet 
this  man  who  might  recognize  him?  This  was  the 
hardest  ordeal  he  had  been  called  upon  to  face,  and 
the  blood  of  humiliation  surged  to  his  cheeks. 

The  hearing  was  short,  almost  informal;  the 
victim  of  the  assault,  having  identified  "Micky  de 
Pinch"  when  he  had  been  brought  before  him, 
McGlennon's  discharge  was  a  certainty.  Vanburg 
was  called  to  the  stand. 

He  answered  the  questions  in  a  low  voice,  tes 
tifying  as  to  what  he  knew  of  "Micky  de  Pinch." 
The  judge's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  in  a  pro 
longed,  incredulous  stare.  Vanburg  was  looking 
straight  before  him,  but  he  felt  the  glance;  he 
knew  that  his  identity  had  been  discovered. 

"What  name  did  you  give,  Mr.  Witness?" 
Madge  Hollander's  face  became  suddenly  livid. 
She  was  trembling,  and  leaned  forward  to  catch 
Vanburg's  answer. 

"Horace  Kent,"  came  the  firm  reply.  Still  his 
eyes  were  leveled  at  the  rear  of  the  room. 

"Kent,"  repeated  the  judge.  "Your  voice  is 
that  of  a  Vanburg  I  once  knew." 

Vanburg  turned  his  head,  and  his  eyes,  unflinch 
ing,  held  those  that  were  directed  toward  him  in 
a  steely,  searching  glance. 

"The  man  of  whom  you  speak,"  replied  Van 
burg,  "is  dead." 

The  voice  was  that  of  a  gentleman,  quiet,  cul- 
205 


TITO 

tured,  and  he  stood  erect,  his  eyes  meeting  those 
of  his  questioner. 

"Yes,"  came  the  reply  in  halting  tones,  "I — 
believe — he  is — dead." 

The  case  against  McGlennon  was  dismissed,  but 
he  was  held  as  a  witness  and  paroled  in  the  custody 
of  his  attorney. 

Madge  and  Wilhelmina  sought  Vanburg  to  ex 
press  their  gratitude.  He  had  gone. 


206 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

ON  the  day  of  McGlennon's  acquittal,  Van- 
burg  disappeared.  For  the  three  days  fol 
lowing  the  trial,  at  Madge's  request,  Mc- 
Glennon  searched  for  him,  visiting  the  places  that 
he  frequented,  inquiring  of  those  who  knew  him, 
but  to  no  avail.  To  his  friends  he  was  as  com 
pletely  lost  as  if  he  were  at  the  bottom  of  the  East 
River,  and,  at  times,  such  a  possibility  suggested 
itself  to  McGlennon ;  but  Madge  would  not  enter 
tain  the  thought.  "He  is  the  last  man  in  the 
world,"  she  declared,  "to  seek  a  coward's  refuge." 
Still,  the  ugly  fact  remained,  and  could  not  be  con 
troverted — not  the  slightest  clue  of  his  where 
abouts  could  be  found  to  indicate  where  he  had 
gone,  or  when,  if  ever,  he  would  return. 

Madge  wished  to  thank  him  for  what  seemed  to 
her  the  extraordinary  capture  of  "Micky  de 
Pinch" ;  for  the  officers  had  reported  before  the 
hearing  that  the  thief  was  not  in  the  city,  or  to  be 
found,  and  that  it  was  more  than  probable  that  he 
had  left  the  country,  all  of  which  made  Vanburg's 
feat  of  producing  him  the  more  remarkable.  But 
this  was  only  an  excuse,  for  it  was  her  desire  to 
make  one  more  appeal,  once  more  to  beg,  to  im 
plore  him.  for  the  sake  of  his  future,  to  return  to 
his  former  life. 

207 


TITO 

On  the  fourth  day  she  relaxed  her  efforts,  but 
she  did  not  despair,  and  begged  McGlennon, 
should  Vanburg  return,  to  communicate  with  her 
through  his  daughter. 

But  here  another  surprise  was  in  store  for  her. 
McGlennon  replied,  "Miss  Hollander,  you  know 
that  I  appreciate  to  the  fullest  extent  what  you 
have  done  for  me,  and  for  my  daughter,  Bill; 
but  don't  ask  me  to  do  that,  which,  were  I  to 
promise,  would  make  me  false  to  myself  and  to  the 
friend  whom  I  respect.  That,  I  cannot,  I  will  not 
do,  neither  will  I  deceive  you  by  a  promise. 
Should  Kent  return" — he  knew  him  by  no  other 
name — "and  did  he  ask  me  not  to  inform  his 
friends — even  you — I  would  respect  his  request  as 
I  would  an  oath.  Don't  think  me  ungrateful,  but 
I  know  the  man,  and  it  is  my  belief  that  he  has 
disappeared  to  escape  those  who  have  his  welfare 
at  heart.  Who  he  is,  what  his  past  station  in  life, 
I  know  not ;  but  I  could  not  betray  him.  It  would 
be  Judas-like,  and  I  believe  you  will  not  ask  it  of 
me." 

"No,"  Madge  replied,  "I  respect  your  feelings, 
your  principles.  We  shall  be  all  the  better 
friends."  So  she  took  up  her  routine  of  work, 
and  McGlennon  returned  to  the  lifting  of  boxes. 

Bill,  gentle,  observing,  amiable  little  Bill, — for 
her  bodily  growth  had  not  kept  pace  with  the 
wisdom  that  had  come  to  her — pondered  what  she 
had  seen,  what  she  had  heard  during  the  past  week. 
Who  was  the  mysterious  friend  of  her  father's 
whom  Madge  seemed  to  know,  her  Madge,  the 

208 


TITO 

beautiful,  the  fairy  god-mother,  whom  she  had 
watched,  had  listened  to, — whose  tell-tale  face  had 
disclosed  the  secret  that  she  believed  was  locked 
in  her  own  heart.  Bill  had  discovered  it — that 
Madge  loved  Vanburg,  fondly,  passionately.  Bill, 
with  jealous  insight,  had  read  it  in  her  eyes,  in  the 
unguarded  tones  of  her  voice,  and  after  Madge  had 
gone  she  smiled  with  a  sweet  joy,  because  she 
should  share  the  secret  with  her  benefactress,  who 
would  never  know. 

When  Vanburg  had  left  the  court-room,  it  was 
almost  with  a  feeling  of  rage  that  Fate  had  played 
him  such  an  unkind  trick — that  he  should  have 
encountered  Madge,  whom  he  esteemed  above  all 
women,  that  he  should  have  been  recognized  by  his 
old  acquaintance  and  friend — the  judge  of  the 
court.  He  had  but  one  desire — to  get  away  where 
he  would  not  again  be  in  danger  of  meeting  those 
he  had  known,  of  enduring  the  humiliation  of  be 
ing  reminded  that  forever  he  must  be  as  one  dead. 

He  drank,  he  drank  deeply;  and  he  went  on  and 
on  to  i  distant  part  of  the  city.  In  his  present  state 
of  feeling,  he  did  not  wish  to  see  those  whom  he 
was  satisfied  would  seek  him — not  even  McGlen- 
non.  To  be  alone  was  his  one  desire;  then  his 
thoughts  filled  him  with  rage — rage  at  his  own 
madness,  chagrin,  shame,  and  he  drank,  drank 
again  and  again,  whiskey  always,  and  always  more. 
At  last  his  nerves  became  quiet,  his  brain  refused 
the  effort  to  think,  and,  though  outwardly  he 
appeared  sober,  a  stupor  settled  over  him  and  the 
rebellious  mind  succumbed  to  the  influence  of  the 

209 


TITO 

liquor — his  thoughts  were  stilled.  The  first  day  of 
this  madness,  for  madness  it  was,  he  forgot  to  eat ; 
the  succeeding  two  days,  the  thought  of  food  filled 
him  with  disgust.  His  nights  were  sleepless,  and 
on  the  fourth  clay,  when  he  returned  to  his  room 
he  was  verging  on  nervous  and  mental  collapse. 

Lying  on  the  bed  he  tossed  through  hours  of 
mental  torture,  and  the  day  wore  into  the  night. 
He  determined,  for  that  night,  to  drink  no  more, 
and  as  the  hours  went  by,  the  reaction  began  to  be 
manifest.  Lack  of  food,  loss  of  sleep,  and  the 
waning  effect  of  the  stimulants  were  doing  their 
work;  the  nervous  system  was  in  a  chaotic  state, 
and,  with  a  start,  he  would  sit  upright  in  the  bed, 
at  times  fancying  the  room  peopled  with  crowds  of 
the  murderous  class  of  which  "Micky  de  Pinch" 
was  the  leader.  The  madness  of  delirium  was  with 
him,  and  his  fevered  imagination  led  him  through 
scenes  of  terror,  carnage,  bloodshed — then  the 
mind,  by  an  heroic  effort,  would  again  become 
normal.  With  the  sweat  standing  in  beads  on 
face  and  brow,  he  would  laugh  as  they  laugh  who, 
when  by  a  trick,  an  evolution  of  the  mind,  the  mad 
ness  they  long  for  eludes  them,  are  hurled  back 
into  the  realization  of  hopeless  sanity. 

During  the  long  night  he  struggled  for  the  sleep 
that  would  not  come.  The  hours  went  by,  hours 
of  fanciful  illusions,  visions  filled  with  horror — 
journeys  through  limitless  space,  pursued,  tor 
tured,  escaping  only  to  again  take  up  his  never 
ending  flight.  His  eyes  would  close  for  a  few 
seconds,  a  minute  seemed  ages,  centuries  of  time, 

2IO 


TITO 

then,  with  a  cry  of  agony,  he  would  beat  the  air 
with  his  clenched  fists,  to  ward  off  the  blows  that 
in  fancy  were  being  rained  upon  him,  while  spectre 
hands,  long,  gaunt,  the  bony  fingers  twitching 
with  convulsive  eagerness  to  seize  him,  yet 
ever  the  same  distance  from  him,  drew  from 
him  a  cry  of  fear,  piercing,  sickening.  Again, 
trembling  with  affright,  his  senses  were  in  com 
mand,  and,  with  a  moan,  sinking  on  the  pillow,  he 
would  close  his  eyes  to  shut  out  the  awful  sight. 
In  a  lethargy,  he  was  falling  through  space, 
falling,  falling  since  the  beginning  of  time,  grasp 
ing  at  air,  through  clouds,  through  tempests,  while 
the  world  rocked  and  the  universe  was  disrupted, 
but  ever  going  down,  down,  until  the  end  of  all,  of 
eternity. 

A  clock  striking  the  hour  in  a  nearby  church 
tower,  was  the  booming  of  cannon  that  he  heard, 
and  he  could  see  the  shells  bursting  over  fields  of 
carnage,  bloody,  distorted  faces,  filling  him  with 
dread,  with  fear,  sounds  of  agony,  of  anguish, 
appeals  of  the  dying ;  until  a  cloud  shut  in  the  hor 
ror,  and  his  journey  through  space  was  resumed. 

The  morning  sun  brought  the  first  fitful  sleep, 
for  nature  was  exhausted  and  the  over-tasked 
nerves  found  rest. 

At  nine  o'clock  he  arose,  weak,  unrefreshed, 
and  after  bathing  face  and  hands,  sat  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed. 

"What  a  night  of  horror — horrors!"  he  ex 
claimed  jocularly.  "We  all  reach  that  stage. 
It's  only  a  question  of  time  and  constitution.  Mine 

211 


TITO 

must  be  of  leather  toughness.  Ach !  But  it  was 
terrible !  I  had  a  touch  of  the — em !  I  don't  like 
to  mention  it !  There  on  the  table  is  the  knife 
and  revolver  that  'Micky  de  Pinch'  was  considerate 
enough  to  deliver  over  to  me.  How  easy  it  would 
be,"  he  mused,  as  he  looked  at  the  weapons.  "One 
touch  on  the  trigger  of  the  revolver,  and  then — 
rest,  oblivion.  They  say  it's  a  coward's  act — I 
wonder  if  it  really  is !  For  myself  I  could  soon 
decide,  but  there  are  others  to  consider — one 
other,  and  I  wouldn't  have  it  said — no,  I  will  not. 
Let  me  see!  When  did  we  eat  last?  One,  two, 
five  days  ago.  What  a  vulgar  necessity  eating  is 
— also,  at  times,  drinking.  Why  can't  the  scien 
tists  invent  something  like  an  essence  of  life,  stored 
vitality,  that  one  injects  as  one  does  morphine,  and 
so  do  away  with  this  eating." 

A  knock  at  the  door  interrupted. 

"Come  in,"  cried  Vanburg. 

Tito  entered. 


212 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

TITO  paused  at  the  threshold,  smiling,  his  eyes 
dancing  with  pleasure,  then  his  rippling 
laugh  rang  up  the  quiet.  Vanburg  stared 
at  him  almost  vacantly. 

"Is  this,"  he  muttered  under  his  breath,  "the 
continuation  of  my  night  of  horror?  Do  visions 
still  come  to  me  in  broad  daylight?" 

He  rose  unsteadily  and  approached  Tito,  who, 
unable  to  comprehend  his  action,  to  understand 
the  look  of  fear  on  Vanburg's  haggard  counte 
nance,  waited  for  him  to  speak.  Vanburg  laid  his 
hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder. 

"No,"  he  exclaimed,  his  voice  choking  with  joy, 
"no,  it  is  Tito,  come  back  to  me."  His  words 
ended  in  a  half  sob  and  his  eyes  moistened. 
"When  I  believed  that  you,  too,  like  all  the  world, 
had  forgotten  me,  you  come  to  me  again.  Oh, 
Tito,  boy,  why  could  you  not  have  come  before 
and  saved  me? — but  that  is  passed."  He  drew  the 
boy  to  him,  and  Tito  looked  up  into  the  face  of  the 
man  who  held  him  close.  The  eyes  were  blood 
shot,  the  lines  about  the  mouth  drawn  as  if  from 
suffering,  the  face  haggard,  colorless.  The  won 
dering  eyes  of  the  boy  questioned  the  cause  before 
the  words  came. 


213 


TITO 

"Thou  hast  been  ill — and  alone.  Ah !  Had  I 
but  known — " 

"Aye,  boy,  ill,  as  the  soul  is  ill,  as  the  mind  is 
diseased.  Ill,  true,  but  of  my  own  making.  Sick, 
as  those  who  long  to  be  released,  and  who  cannot 
be,  heartsick,  boy — an  ailment  which  you  cannot 
know,  which  you  cannot  understand.  But  enough, 
you  are  here  and  I  am  well  again.  See,"  he  said, 
looking  down  upon  the  boy, — his  face  as  that  of  a 
death  mask — "now  am  I  myself  again." 

The  lips  could  not  force  a  smile,  but  in  the  eyes 
that  were  turned  to  meet  those  of  his  visitor,  there 
was  a  longing,  a  craving  for  a  look,  a  word  of 
affection  that  the  quick,  intuitive  mind  of  the  boy 
grasped ;  and  an  answering  flash  of  feeling  lighted 
up  his  features. 

"Why  did  I  not  know  that  thou  wert  ill? 
Would  I  not  have  come?  Yes,  and  quickly. 
Didst  thou  not  care  for  me  as  no  other  ever  has?" 

"Care  for  you !  Boy,  you  cannot  realize !  The 
days  you  were  with  me  were  the  one  bright 
spot  in  years  of  darkness.  But  enough !  I  can 
tell  by  the  twinkle  in  your  eyes  that  you  have  not 
had  coffee." 

Vanburg  laughed.  It  was  the  old-time  mirth 
and  was  good  to  hear.  His  eyes  had  become 
clearer,  his  face  had  assumed  its  normal  ex 
pression,  a  faint  color  had  come  into  his  cheeks, 
and  in  the  boy's  presence  he  seemed  a  being  other 
than  the  Vanburg  of  a  few  hours  before. 

He  went  out  and  returned  with  coffee,  rolls  and 
fruit;  and,  under  the  exhilaration  of  the  coffee, 

214 


TITO 

they  chatted  and  laughed,  Tito,  meanwhile,  re 
counting  his  experiences  since  he  had  last  seen  his 
companion.  At  times  an  expression  of  abstrac 
tion  stole  into  Vanburg's  eyes.  He  was  enrap 
tured  by  the  boy's  voice,  which  stirred  him  as,  in 
years,  nothing  else  had  had  the  power  to  do.  And 
Tito's  eyes,  brimming  with  happiness,  lingered  on 
the  face  of  the  man,  irresistibly  drawn  to  him,  the 
emotions  of  youth  stirring  his  inner  nature  into 
spontaneous  outbursts  of  mirth. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  "thou  wert  ill?  Thou! 
How  can  it  be?  Thou  who  art  so  strong,  who 
fought  with  the  thieves,  aye !  like  a  god !" 

Vanburg  smiled.  "It  was  the  sickness  of  the 
mind,  the  brain.  I  will  not  tell  you,  boy,  what 
occasioned  it,  for  you  would  think  the  less  of  me, 
nay,  you  would  despise  me." 

"Despise  thee !  No.  Knowest  thou  that  when 
I  came  to  thee  to-day  and  saw  thee  again,  it  was  as 
though  a  great  joy  had  come  to  me?  Why  should 
it  be  so?"  he  asked  in  the  tone  of  one  who  would 
unravel  a  great  truth.  "Thou  shalt  go  thy  way  and 
we  shall  not  meet  again;  I  shall  go  mine — a  way 
that  takes  me  back  to  dear  Italia;  that  will  be 
when,  without  shame,  I  can  go  back  and  meet 
those  who  scoff  at  me.  Then  thou  wilt  forget  the 
'Little  Devil,'  and  I  shall  remember  thee  as  one  so 
great,  as  one  who  fought  as  I  never  can  hope  to — 
but  I  shall  also  remember  thee  as  one  who  was 
good  to  me." 

Vanburg  remained    silent.     Again    the    boy's 

215 


TITO 

words  brought  before  him  his  complete  isolation. 
With  an  effort  he  put  the  thoughts  from  him. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said  gently,  "of  your  life  in  Italia. 
Remember  that  I,  too,  love  the  flowers,  the  song, 
the  sunshine:  and  had  I  a  desire  left,  it  would  be 
that  I  could  once  again  see  the  land  that  gave  me 
the  only  happiness  I  ever  knew." 

Into  Tito's  eyes  came  a  dreamy  expression.  In 
memory,  he  was  again  in  the  valley  of  the  Arno. 
Scenes  which  were  stamped  upon  his  impression 
able  mind  revolved  before  him.  Then  a  cloud 
overspread  his  fair  face,  the  passion  of  his  child 
hood  was  in  control,  and  the  quickening  blood, 
dancing  to  his  cheeks,  spoke  of  shame  that  still 
rankled  in  his  heart. 

Again  he  was  the  Tito  of  the  woods,  the  fields, 
his  eyes,  his  voice,  his  soul  in  the  years  that  were 
gone. 

"I  can  tell  thee  only  of  the  Tito  whom  no  one 
would  know,  for  that  I  could  not  tell  them  who  I 
was.  When  they  asked  me  my  name,  I  could  only 
answer  Tito.  That  was  all.  Then  they  would 
smile  and  walk  away.  Then  would  I  go  to  the 
river  and  ask  the  Madonna  why  it  was  so.  But 
no  one  would  answer  but  the  birds,  and  after  I  had 
cried  till  night  had  come,  I  would  go  home  to  the 
old  woman — she  with  whom  I  lived — and  demand 
of  her  who  I  was,  who  the  father  that  had  brought 
me  into  the  world  to  be  laughed  at,  to  be  called — 
Ah!  if  you  only  knew  how  it  hurt!  and  the  old 
woman  would  laugh,  laugh  as  they  might  laugh  in 
hell.  But  she  would  tell  me  nothing  only  to  wait 

216 


TITO 

— always  to  wait.  And  her  face  as  she  laughed — I 
can  see  it  now !  It  was  terrible !  And  I  would  run 
away  into  the  woods  that  I  might  not  hear.  But 
little  by  little  she  told  me  all — all  but  his  name,  all 
but  the  one  thing  that  I  would  know;  and  ah! 
how  I  longed  to  learn  the  name  that  I  might  stand 
before  him  and  ask  him  what  he  had  to  say  to  me 
— his  son?  Then  the  old  woman  died,  in  the 
night,  alone,  and  had  not  told  me.  But  he  is  rich, 
this  father  whom  I  would  find.  And  I  shall  ask 
him  of  the  mother  whom  I  have  never  known,  and 
then — do  you  know  what  in  my  country  they  say 
of  him  who  will  not  avenge  a  wrong?  Do  you 
know  they  say  he  is  not  fit  to  eat  with  swine? 
Think  you  I  would  go  back  and  look  them  in  the 
face  could  I  not  say:  "Here,  on  my  knife,  is  his 
dirty  blood?" 

As  Tito  progressed  with  his  story  so  grew  his 
passion,  and  his  tones,  clear  and  with  a  determined 
ring,  filled  the  room,  while  Vanburg  listened,  at 
first  with  pity,  then  with  surprise  which  gave  place 
to  astonishment.  He  had  not  believed  the  boy 
possessed  of  such  depth  of  feeling,  and  the  eyes 
that  flashed  gleams  of  hate  told  him  he  was  listen 
ing  to  a  boy  in  years  with  the  soul  of  a  man. 
Vanburg  was  about  to  reply  but,  with  an  imperi 
ous  wave  of  his  hand,  Tito  interrupted. 

"Thou  wouldst  say  that  I  am  wrong.  How 
canst  thou  know  who  have  never  suffered  the 
shame,  the  sorrow?  Canst  thou  tell  me  why  he 
should  not  answer  me?  No,  thou  canst  not,  thou 
canst  not." 

217 


TITO 

"Would  to  God  that  I  could,  boy,  so  that  you 
might  heed  me.  What  can  I  say,  what  can  I  do 
to  turn  you  from  your  awful  purpose  ?  Tito,  boy, 
listen  to  me.  It  is  not  of  this  father  of  whom  I 
think,  but  of  you.  His  life,  even  now,  is  on  the 
ebb,  rushing  out,  perhaps,  with  the  fast  tide.  His 
may  be  but  the  wreckage  of  a. life  that  drifts,  no 
one  knows  where,  no  one  cares.  Your  life  is  in 
the  bud,  opening  into  life,  with  promise  that  the 
gods  might  envy;  but  this  passion  will  blight  it, 
and  the  soul  within  you  will  live  in  torment,  it  will 
become  shrunken,  deformed.  All  that  is  good  in 
you  will  die,  the  music  will  leave  your  voice,  the 
light  your  eyes,  and  you  will  not  care  for  the  beau 
ties  of  your  own  Italia;  for  on  every  leaf,  on  every 
flower  will  there  be  a  drop  of  crimson  blood,  my 
Tito." 

"Why  wilt  thou  talk  to  me  so  ?"  wailed  the  boy, 
agony  in  his  tones, "thou  makest  me  falter — forget; 
and  I  would  not,  I  must  not.  Think  of  the  mother 
whom  I  have  neA  er  seen,  think  of  her  wrong.  And 
thou  wouldst  ask  me  to  forget?  Madonna  Mia, 
no!  Ask  me  not  that — I  have  thought  of  thee 
much,  aye,  each  day  have  I  thought  of  thee.  See ! 
Here  is  the  envelope  that  thou  gavest  me.  I 
knew  what  was  within — I  could  tell  by  the  touch, 
and  I  said — no,  it  is  not  for  me.  Sometime  I  shall 
go  to  him  and  he  will  not  have  money,  and  I  shall 
have  it  for  him.  Thou  wilt  not  ask  me  to  forget 
my  wrong?  Thou,  who  art  so  brave.  After  I 
had  left  thee  I  felt  the  touch  of  thy  lips  on  my 
forehead,  and  I  was  glad  that  someone  there  was 

218 


TITO 

who  did  not  remember  that  I  was  nameless.  And 
I  longed  to  come  to  thee  again,  to  touch  thy  hand, 
to  hear  thee  speak.  But,  wert  thou  the  father 
whom  I  seek,  would  I,  with  this  knife,  reach  thee 
where  the  thief  failed  !" 

He  took  the  knife  of  "Micky  de  Pinch"  from 
the  table,  and  held  it  before  Vanburg,  who,  shud 
dering,  turned  his  head  away.  It  seemed  to  him, 
even  at  that  moment,  that  he  could  feel  the  blade 
as,  with  the  power  of  hate,  the  boy's  hand  drove  it 
home.  Taking  the  knife  in  his  hand  he  threw  it 
across  the  room,  where  it  struck  against  the  wall 
with  a  steely  ring. 

'Tito,  boy,  with  this  passion  your  young  life 
will  burn  out;  it  will  scorch  your  very  soul.  Put 
these  feelings  from  you,  for  they  are  madness; 
they  will  lead  you  to  no  good ; — they  will  result 
in  the  death  of  all  the  future  has  to  offer.  Who 
could  have  instilled  such  thoughts  into  your  young 
mind?  Was  it  this  old  woman  of  whom  you 
speak  ?  You  do  not  realize  you  are  rearing  a  foun 
dation  that  will  fall  and  crush  you,  and  the  young 
life  that  is  now  so  beautiful !  Think  what  it  would 
be  with  blood  upon  your  hands — the  blood  of  your 
own  father.  Think  of  what  I  say,  boy." 

"Think?  Have  I  not  thought  until  my  brain 
aches !  Through  the  clays  and  the  nights !  Am  I 
not  of  a  people  who  right  their  wrongs — with  the 
knife?  Can  I  go  back  and  look  them  in  the  face, 
and  then  when  they  say  to  me,  'Tito,  art  thou 
avenged?'  must  T  answer,  'no,'  and  hang  my  head 
with  the  shame  that  will  be  mine?  Then  shall 

219 


TITO 

they  call  me  by  another  name — 'Coward!'  Aye, 
'Coward!'  That  would  be  worse  than  the  other, 
for  I  am  no  coward.  No,"  he  cried,  as  Vanburg 
was  about  to  interrupt  him,  "the  Fates  have  willed 
it  so,  it  is  as  they  direct.  I  have  my  mission,  it  is  as 
clear  to  me  as  the  sunlight  through  the  window." 

"God  grant  for  your  own  sake,  that  you  may  not 
succeed.  Could  I  give  my  worthless  life  to  turn 
you  from  your  purpose,  then  would  I  believe  the 
past  years  had  not  been  lived  in  vain.  Come,  boy, 
let  us  talk  no  more  of  this.  Put  it  from  your  mind. 
You  have  suffered,  aye,  sorrow,  humiliation,  that 
I  believe ;  but  you  can  rise  above  these  feelings,  for 
you  are  blameless.  But,  boy,  there  is  a  sorrow, 
greater,  keener,  more  relentless  than  any  your 
young  life  has  known,  a  sorrow  that  gnaws  at  the 
heart,  that  never  slumbers: — sickening,  ever  and 
ever  with  you — remorse.  What  you  now  feel  is 
but  the  echo  of  a  wrong  that  is  not  yours ;  should 
you  succeed,  then  may  you  know  the  torments  of 
the  damned.  We  will  speak  no  more  of  it — not 
now.  It  is  yet  early,  and  this  is  a  day  I  should 
work  that  we  may  live,  and  there  is  much  to  do." 

"What  is  this  work  that  thou  must  do?  May 
I  not  also  work?  See!"  Standing,  he  threw  out 
his  arms.  "Am  I  not  strong?" 

Vanburg  laughed. 

"Yes,  but  this  work  of  mine  requires  skill  and 
long  training,  and — and,  no,  little  man,  it  is  not 
such  work  as  you  could  do.  As  for  me — well,  you 
see,  it  suits  my  mental  condition." 

"But  what  is  this  work  ?"  queried  Tito. 
220 


TITO 

Vanburg  was  being  attacked  at  close  quarters. 
He  smiled  at  the  boy's  persistence. 

"It  is  concerned  with  the  discharge  of  a  ship's 
cargo  from  the  hold  and  the  propulsion  of  the  mer 
chandise,  by  means  of  a  truck,  to  the  wharf.  It  is 
a  very  delicate  operation  and  requires  a  fineness  of 
judgment  in  selecting  the  more  accessible  and 
lighter  burdens." 

"Em !  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  I  don't  think  I 
should  like  it." 

"No,"  replied  Vanburg,  "that  you  would  not. 
You  will  come  to  me  again,  Tito,  and  soon." 

"Yes,"  he  replied. 

Within  the  hour  Vanburg  was  pushing  heavy 
boxes  on  a  truck,  for  he  had  no  difficulty  in  procur 
ing  work  at  any  time.  He  went  about  his 
labor  silently,  but  he  had  gained  a  reputation 
for  prodigious  strength,  and  his  willingness  and 
dexterity  insured  him  a  day's  pay  when  he  cared  to 
seek  it. 

Throughout  the  day  his  mind  dwelt  on  Tito  and 
what  the  boy  had  told  him  of  his  quest  in  America. 
The  boy  was  possessed  of  will  power  and  deter 
mination  unusual  in  one  so  young,  and  Vanburg 
realized  that  it  would  be  no  easy  task  to  turn  him 
from  his  purpose.  He  was  fully  aware  of  the  diffi 
culty  which  confronted  him,  and  he  decided  that 
when  he  should  again  see  Tito  he  would  question 
him  more  fully  as  to  his  past  life,  to  gather  infor 
mation  upon  which  to  proceed;  and  the  day  wore 
itself  away. 

At  six  o'clock,  with  McGlennon,  he  was  on  his 
221 


TITO 

way  to  his  cheerless  room,  with  the  hope  that 
Tito  would  return.  He  could  not  keep  the  boy 
from  his  mind  any  length  of  time  and,  though  Mc- 
Glennon  had  much  to  tell,  he  found  Vanburg  sin 
gularly  absent-minded  and  unresponsive. 

At  the  corner  of  the  street  they  parted,  and  the 
Scotchman,  noting  his  companion's  reticence,  bade 
him  good-night  and  proceeded  homeward. 

Vanburg  had  reached  the  entrance  of  the  build 
ing  where  he  lodged,  and  was  about  to  enter, 
when,  hearing  his  name  spoken,  he  turned  quickly, 
to  be  confronted  by  Madge  Hollander. 

Her  eyes  sought  his,  and  her  smile  of  pleasure 
disconcerted  him. 

"You  will  forgive  me  for  coming  here,"  she 
said,  "but  I  must  see  you,  if  only  for  a  moment" 

"I  have  no  place  to  which  I  can  ask  you  to  go, 
where  we  might  talk  in  privacy."  His  tone  was 
one  of  marked  courtesy. 

"We  can  walk,"  she  suggested,  "I  wished 
to  see  you  so  much ;  to  thank  you  for  your  help  in 
Mr.  McGlennon's  trouble.  His  daughter  has 
sought  you  every  day  to  express  her  gratitude;  of 
course  her  father  has  already  done  so." 

"He  tried  to,"  Vanburg  replied,  laughing,  "but 
1  checked  him." 

"I  wrung  from  Mr.  McGlennon,  but  with  great 
difficulty,  the  knowledge  of  where  I  could  find 
you.  Believe  me,  it  was  much  against  his  will 
that  he  gave  me  the  information ;  you  will  not,  I 
know,  lay  it  up  against  him  as  a  breach  of  friend 
ship,  for  he  was  as  loath  to  tell  me  as  you  seem  to 

222 


TITO 

be  to  keep  up  our  old  acquaintance.  But  I  could 
not  help  it,"  her  voice  was  tremulous,  "I  had  an 
overpowering  desire  to  see  you,  to  speak  to  you. 
You  can  guess  the  feelings  that  prompted  me. 
You  are  not  angry?" 

"Angry,  Madge,  dear!  No,  I  know  what  you 
would  say,  I  realize  what  you  feel,  but  the  time 
has  long  since  passed  when  I  could  consider  what 
you  would  suggest.  I  have,  by  my  own  acts, 
burned  the  bridges  behind  me,  cutting  off  all  pos 
sibility  of  turning  back,  destroying  all  hope  of 
returning  to  my  former  position  in  life.  I  am  as 
irredeemably  lost  as  if  I  were,  in  reality,  dead;  and 
it  is  best  so.  You  could  not  understand.,  even  were 
I  to  attempt  useless  explanations;  suffice  it  that 
what  made  the  future  something  of  light,  of  bright 
ness,  passed  out  of  my  life,  and  I  am  drifting  aim 
lessly  without  hope,  without  desire  to  escape  the 
maelstrom  of  a  wasted  existence." 

"You  cannot  realize  how  it  pains  me  to  hear 
you  talk  so,"  she  said. 

"I  have  no  desire  to  wound  you, — I  know  you 
are  grieved,  shocked." 

"Both,"  she  replied.  "I  hoped  to  point  out 
a  way — " 

He  smiled  at  her  persistence,  her  earnestness. 

"No,  Madge,  dear,  no.  Let  us  not  discuss  it 
further.  It  is  better,  Madge,  that  we  do  not  meet 
again;  nothing  good  would  come  of  it,  and  much 
as  I  would  like  to  see  you,  these  meetings  fill  me 
with  unrest,— they  stir  emotions  I  would  stifle, 
arousing  in  me  remembrances  that  are  a  torture. 

223 


TITO 

This  is  not  a  locality  that  you  should  visit, 
even  for  a  purpose  that  one  of  your  pure  instincts 
would  pursue.  I  shall  remember  you,  Madge,  as 
a  true  comrade;  and  now  I  will  leave  you  here, 
where  you  can  take  a  car  uptown.  Good  bye, 
and — "  his  voice  shook  with  emotion — "for  God's 
sake  forget  that  I  live." 

"Good  bye,"  she  replied  in  a  tremulous  voice, 
taking  his  hand  in  her  own,  "I  shall  remember 
only  that  you  live,  and  I  shall  not  despair." 

He  stood  at  the  street  crossing  while  she 
boarded  an  uptown  car;  then,  with  a  weary  sigh, 
turned  away. 


224 


"GOOD-BYE,"  SHE  REPLIED  IN  A  TREMULOUS  VOICE. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

VANBURG  sat  in  his  room,  moody  and  ab 
stracted,  waiting  for  Tito  to  return,  but  as 
the  hours  went  by  he  abandoned  hope  and 
determined  to  go  out,  for  the  dreariness  of  the 
room  was  disheartening.  His  interview  with 
Madge  Hollander  had  not  been  productive  of 
good,  for  it  stirred  memories  of  his  former  life,  and 
though  he  could  find  no  satisfactory  reason,  his 
meeting  with  her  had  aroused  a  savage  resentment 
against  the  world  that  he  blamed  for  not  allowing 
him  to  live  in  peace  the  life  he  had  chosen. 

He  paced  the  floor  with  rapid  strides. 

"What  right,"  he  muttered,  "has  the  world,  of 
which  I  ask  nothing  but  to  live  in  my  own  sodden 
way,  to  interfere?  Am  I  necessary  to  its  prog 
ress?  No!  Do  I  owe  it  a  duty?  Once,  per 
haps  I  did,  but  that  was  when  I  was  of  it.  Now, 
I  am  dead, — to  all  intents  and  purposes,  dead. 
The  man,  the  soul  within  me  is  no  more,  nothing 
remains  but  the  shell,  the  clay  that  is  fast  crum 
bling,  the  physical  life  that  is  burning  out." 

He  laughed  scoffingly. 

"Here  I  am,  one  in  millions  of  the  vast  herd,  a 
speck  of  dirt,  a  worm :  soulless,  hopeless,  and  yet 
the  world,  with  its  vexatious  cares,  rinding  time  to 
concern  itself  with  my  earthly,  my  earthy  being, 

225 


TITO 

notes  that  I  am  of  its  figment,  and  though  I  have 
proclaimed  myself  dead,  it  insists  that  I  live." 

Again  the  mocking  laugh. 

"I  suppose  its  lease  not  having  expired,  it  has  a 
lien  upon  my  human  carcass,  and  it  is  not  content 
unless  it  records  its  own  measure  of  suffering. 
Will  you,  rotund  Shylock,  shake  up  the  bones  of 
him  whom  you  will  not  permit  to  remain  dead, 
prod  the  fire  to  keep  the  little  life-flame  from 
snuffing  out?  You  cannot  resurrect  me,  for  I 
have  been  dead  too  long  a  time.  Use  caution, 
for  when  you  become  too  persistent,  you  drive  me 
to  visit  my  friend,  Death  House  Joe.  He,  the 
sly,  calculating  knave,  has  an  antidote  for  your 
poison.  Take  heed,  then,  how  you  exact  your 
measure  of  penance ;  for  the  more  importunate  you 
become,  the  more  does  Joe  of  the  House  of  Death 
thrive.''  He  smiled  ironically.  "Vanburg,  you're 
talking  skittles.  Thus  do  they  talk  who  woo  an 
eternal  madness, — not  the  madness  of  drink, — 
that  other  stage,  to  which  the  illusions  of  dis 
ordered  nerves,  is  sanity." 

He  remained  silent  for  some  moments, — the 
rumble  of  the  city,  like  the  sullen  growl  of  a  wild 
beast  fretting  at  its  enforced  captivity,  the  only 
sound. 

"Yet,"  he  continued  in  a  gentler  tone,  "as  far  as 
within  me  lies,  I  have  one  regret — Madge.  Poor 
noble-hearted  girl,  nay,"  he  smiled,  "woman,  for 
we  are  no  longer  of  tender  years.  What  a  heart 
she  has!  True  to  the  friendship  of  our  youth. 
She  is  not  of  the  butterfly  crowd,  and  the  years 

226 


TITO 

have  not  succeeded  in  dwarfing  her  noble  charac 
ter.  In  her  practicability  she  is  worldliness  itself 
and  yet,  in  her  purity  of  thought  and  deed,  un 
worldly  as  a  child.  Dear  Madge,  I  revere  you  for 
what  you  would  do  for  me,  for  your  goodness  of 
heart,  for  the  conventionalities  of  your  social  posi 
tion  you  hold  as  naught,  even  in  contempt;  but 
you  have  stirred  within  me  the  demon  of  unrest. 
If  I  knew  where  to  find  the  boy,  I  would  go  to 
him,"  he  said  abruptly.  'Tito,  yours  is  a  magic 
power,  for  you,  'Little  Devil,'  have,  like  a  vine, 
wound  yourself  about  my  very  life.  What  is  it 
that  draws  me  to  the  boy?  Only  the  tone  of  his 
voice  and  again  I  am  living  the  years  of  hope,  of 
love,  of  promise.  Heigh-ho,  that  is  the  way  of 
the  weary  world.  We  love,  and  then, — then  it  all 
ends,  as  all  things  do  that  are  mortal,  all  but  suf 
fering.  That,  even  before  the  death  of  the  testa 
tor,  is  bequeathed  to  the  next  generation  and 
becomes  a  perpetual  legacy.  I  believe  I'll  go  out 
and  interview'  Joe — he  of  the  House  of  Death — 
and  joy.  I  am  sorry  my  friend,  'The  Pinch,'  is  de 
tained  by  the  authorities ;  I  rather  enjoy  his  com 
pany  at  times.  To-night  happens  to  be  one  of  the 
times.  There  is  a  vast  amount  of  human  philos 
ophy  in  'Micky,'  but  Fate  directed  it  into  vicious 
channels ;  wherefore,  'Micky'  is  not  to  blame.  But 
the  powers  have  ruled  that  'The  Pinch'  be  de 
tained,  thus,  by  its  arbitrary  will,  balking  my  desire 
to  further  cultivate  that  very  untrustworthy,  but 
withal,  fascinating  gentleman.  Hence,  I  am 
thrown  upon  my  own  society,  which,  in  my  pres- 

227 


TITO 

ent  mood,  is  not  what  would  be  deemed  pleasur 
able,  or  seeking  entertainment  at  the  hands  of 
someone  less  worthy  than  the  nimble-fingered 
'Pinch.'  Let  it  be  said,  to  the  credit  of  that  indi 
vidual,  that  in  his  hate  he  is  intense,  heroic,  even 
rising,  at  times,  to  the  sublime.  Well,  if  the  law, 
that  insatiable  monster,  has  laid  a  cruel  hand  upon 
him,  he  suffers  not  alone,  for  I  am  deprived  of  his 
very  charming  society.  Now  then,  Joe,  I  shall 
look  upon  the  clan  that  rally  to  your  slogan, — five- 
cent  whiskey  and  the  forgetfulness  of  delirium. 
What  if  the  boy  should  return?  It  is  late,  too  late 
even  to  hope,  yet  will  I  leave  the  door  unlocked 
and  the  light  burning.  And  now  to  woo  the  yel 
low  jade." 

When  he  entered  Joe's,  it  was  plain  to  be  seen 
that  there  was  a  commotion  within.  The  crowd 
was  augmented  by  one  or  two  new  faces,  and  the 
excited  jumble  of  voices  told  plainly  that  there  was 
strife  abroad.  Gesticulating  wildly,  they  were  all 
talking  at  the  same  time, — one,  whom  Vanburg 
recognized  as  an  expert  pickpocket,  approached 
him  as  he  entered. 

"Say,"  he  bellowed  in  stentorian  tones,  "here's 
his  giblets  as  tru  'Micky  de  Pinch,'  as  slick  a  trick 
as  ever  I  seed  done.  He's  on  de  square,  he  is,  an' 
I'll  bank  me  life  on  'im.  He's  eddicated  and  can 
talk  one  uv  de  cheap  guys,  holdin'  down  a  chair 
on  de  bench,  off  his  seat.  He  kin  settle  dis  ques 
tion  as  well  as  any  judge." 

A  roar  of  approval  greeted  the  speaker's  propo 
sition.  Vanburg  was  feared,  but  his  spirit  of  fair- 

228 


TITO 

ness  had  won  him  the  respect  of  the  most  hard 
ened  offender  that  knew  him ;  and  since  his  first 
encounter  with  "The  Pinch,"  he  enjoyed  a  fast 
growing  popularity.  It  was  a  question  of  thieving 
ethics  that  was  agitating  the  motley  gathering, 
and  the  nyive  proposition  of  the  spokesman  was 
that  Vanburg  should  sit  as  judge,  and,  after  hear 
ing  the  evidence,  render  a  verdict  in  accordance 
with  their  unwritten  code. 

Vanburg  smiled.  He  was  amused  at  the  propo 
sition,  at  the  seriousness  with  which  it  was  made, 
at  the  earnest,  set  expression  on  the  faces  of  the 
crowd,  upon  which  every  degree  of  viciousness 
was  stamped.  Ordering  the  bar-tender  to  bring 
the  court  a  drink,  they  adjourned  to  the  rear  room, 
and,  with  a  formality  gleaned  from  many  and  costly 
experiences,  the  impromptu  tribunal  convened. 

McGlennon  had  entered,  and,  having  heard  the 
thieves'  proposal  that  Vanburg  act  as  judge,  he 
joined  them  when  they  had  pushed  through  into 
the  rear  room.  As  Vanburg  took  his  seat  he 
caught  McGlennon's  eye,  and  an  amused,  quizzical 
glance  passed  between  the  two  men.  It  was  a 
glance  both  well  understood — they  would  be  pre 
pared  for  any  emergency. 

''Now,  you  guys  hear  me !"  it  was  the  originator 
of  the  proceedings  who  spoke.  "His  giblets  'ere," 
indicating  Vanburg,  "is  de  court,  and  dis  is  on  de 
level.  Don't  interfere  wid  de  court !  If  yer  do — 
say!  dere  ain't  one  uv  yer  he  can't  dust  de  floor 
wid,  so  just  be  as  dumb  as  if  yer  wer'  doin'  stunts 
at  two  A.  M.  on  a  strike-match  job.  You,  Red 

229 


TITO 

Sullivan,  kin  do  yer  own  shoutin';  an'  yer  onto 
wot  dey  says  of  a  lawyer  as  tries  'is  own  case? 
Well,  he  settles.  I  t'ink  I  can  steer  our  case 
t'rough.  Is  de  court  ready?" 

Vanhurg  signified  that  the  court  was  open. 

"Then  let  'er  go!  Sully,  it's  your  spiel.  No 
frills  now,  jest  de  plain  facts!  Let  'er  go!" 

"Yer  honor,"  began  Sullivan  of  the  red  hair, 
"it's  like  dis." 

"Are  you  going  to  testify?"  queried  Vanburg, 
gravely. 

"O5  course  I'm  goin'  ter  tell  me  side  uv  de  case ! 
What  d'yer  t'ink?" 

"I  think,"  came  the  calm  reply,  "that  you  will 
address  the  court  with  more  respect.  You  are  not 
now  in  the  criminal  division  of  our  city  court.  The 
witnesses  who  are  to  testify  will  hold  up  their  right 
hand  and  be  sworn." 

The  hand  of  every  individual  in  the  room,  with 
the  exception  of  McGlennon,  shot  into  the  air. 

The  court  smiled  and,  with  due  solemnity,  ad 
ministered  the  customary  oath. 

"You  may  proceed,  Mr.  Sullivan."  The  court's 
tone  was  of  judicial  calmness. 

The  prefix  "Mr."  disconcerted  the  intrepid 
Sullivan.  All  the  parties  concerned  joined  in  a 
spontaneous  yell  of  delight  and  admiration  for  the 
court. 

"Say,"  the  voice  rose  above  the  roar,  "de  judge 
is  a  peach !  Dat's  wot  he  is !" 

Vanburg,  from  his  raised  seat  on  the  bootblack 
stand,  rapped  sharply. 

230 


TITO 

"If  better  order  is  not  maintained,  the  court  will 
be  cleared  of  all  but  the  attorneys  and  the  testify 
ing  witness." 

Consternation  and  a  momentary  silence  fol 
lowed,  broken  only  by  the  responsive  breathing 
of  the  plaintiff.  The  court  nodded  for  him  to 
proceed. 

"It's  dis  way,  yer  honor,"  spoke  Sullivan,  "dis 
guy  'ere,  indicating  the  cause  of  the  judicial  in 
quiry  with  a  scornful  gesture, — me  an'  dis  guy  and 
his  pal,  'Bow-leg  Sheeny,'  were  out  on  a  little  ex 
cursion,  dat's  de  genteel  guff  fer  it,  and  when  we 
gets  back  ter  town,  we  have  a  job  lot  er  silver — de 
real  article,  an'  no  plated  fake  about  it.  Well,  yer 
honor,  no  matter  how  we  got  it,  it  was  ours  when 
we  struck  de  town ;  den  when  we  conies  to  whack 
up,  de  Sheeny  squeals — " 

"No,  I  didn't  squeal !"  The  Sheeny  pushed  for 
ward. 

The  court  rapped  for  order. 

"You  there,  Mr.  Officer,  it  is  time  the  court  had 
a  drink,  and  Sheeny,  I  will  request  you  to  repress 
your  too  evident  ardor.  You  will  have  an  oppor 
tunity  to  testify.  Mr.  Sullivan,  continue." 

"It's  dis  way:  Sheeny  and  his  partner  got  de 
stuff,  an'  I  watched  outside,  fer  yer  see  it  was  no 
easy  crack.  Now  he  claims  t'ree  quarters  of  de 
rake  off.  Wot  do  yer  t'ink  of  dat  fer  a  steer?" 

The  Sheeny  glared.  "Wot  de  hell!  Wasn't  I 
up  against  a  gun  ?  Didn't  dey  try  ter  wing  me  ?" 

"The  next  time  you  interrupt  the  witness," 
spoke  the  court  in  august  tones,  "I  shall  fine  you 

231 


TITO 

the  drinks  for  the  crowd.  You  are  already  in  con 
tempt,  sir." 

"Dere,"  volunteered  Sullivan,  "take  a  sneak! 
Go  back  and  hang  yerself  up  on  a  hook  in  de  hall. 
Don't  interrupt  a  gentleman  when  he's  argerin' 
ter  de  court!" 

The  court  drank  and  was  all  attention.  Sulli 
van  threw  back  his  shoulders  and  continued : 

"Now,  in  our  profesh',  t'ings  have  got  ter  be 
done  on  de  square,  see?" 

The  court  manifested  that  it  comprehended. 

"Well,  dis  is  me  case:  I  want  de  court  ter 
order  Sheeny  ter  split  up  even  on  de  swag.  I  did 
me  share  of  de  work — " 

The  Sheeny  was  on  his  feet,  shaking  his  fist 
alternately  at  the  court  and  in  Sullivan's  face  to 
give  vent  to  his  outraged  feeling  of  justice. 

"Half  de  work !"  The  Sheeny's  voice  was  trem 
ulous.  "Say.  do  I  look  like  a  farmer?" 

The  court  frowned  upon  the  Sheeny.  The 
judge's  voice  was  ominously  calm. 

"Bar-tender,  the  drinks  for  the  crowd.  Sheeny, 
the  court  rules  that  before  you  will  be  allowed  to 
proceed,  you  must  pay  the  costs." 

Muttered  imprecations  from  Sheeny.  Then, 
under  his  breath:  "Dis  is  wrorse  than  a  holdup 
in  de  first  session.  Yer  can  fix  it  dere  wid  de  cop 
for  any  old  price.  Gee !  But  dat  bloke  takes  me 
breat'  away!" 

Sullivan  had  finished  putting  in  his  evidence, 
and  the  Sheeny  presented  his  defence.  He  re- 


232 


TITO 

counted  the  difficulty  in  conducting  so  delicate  an 
undertaking,  spoke  of  his  experience  that  covered 
years  of  work,  jobs  to  be  undertaken  only  by  ex 
perts  ;  dwelt  with  evident  emotion  on  several  mis 
carriages  of  justice,  when,  for  terms  ranging  from 
thirty  days  to  two  years,  he  had  been  forced  into 
temporary  retirement,  sojourning  on  the  island,  or 
up  the  river.  With  pitying  contempt  he  desig 
nated  a  government  that  would  interfere  with  a 
man  earning  an  honest  living  as  unworthy  the 
support  of  citizens  like  himself,  that  had  rendered 
long  and  honorable  service  in  the  conduct  of 
municipal  affairs.  In  eloquent  tones  he  con 
tinued  : 

"Didn't  I  t'row  me  five  votes  in  different  wards 
at  de  last  election?  An'  den  de  cops  ain't  satisfied 
when  dey  don't  touch  yer  fer  all  yer  make !  And 
now  when  me  and  me  partner  takes  all  de  risk  on 
this  little  job, — Sully  was  down  de  road  on  de 
watch, — wot  does  he  say?  dat  he  ought  to  have 
an  even  rake  off !  Wot  de  hell !  and  de  watchman 
trying  to  pump  cold  lead  into  me!"  Concluding, 
he  addressed  himself  to  the  court :  "I  knows  yer 
a  square  guy,  an'  I  wants  yer  ter  do  de  fair  t'ing, 
see !.  Dat's  all !"  He  turned  to  the  bar-tender. 
"Tip  off  de  court  wid  a  ball."  Then  in  an  under 
tone  :  "Ef  dat  spiel  don't  cinch  dis  case,  den  de 
guy's  no  good !" 

Sullivan,  with  a  majestic  uplifting  of  the  shoul 
ders,  after  directing  a  glance  at  his  adversary,  a 
look  of  scorn,  derision,  pity,  made  a  profound  bow 
to  the  court. 

233 


TITO 

"Yer  honor,  now  I'll  give  yer  de  t'ing  straight ! 
Der'll  be  no  frills  in  mine.  Dem's  fer  de  Sheeny 
and  the  cheap  steerers  down  ter  de  first  session, 
looking  for  an  arrest  to  make  der  board  out  of. 
I'm  no  oratorier  as  Hamlet  says.  I'll  give  yer  de 
plain  story — no  fake." 

Sullivan  dwelt  long  and  earnestly  on  the  facts 
of  the  case,  maintaining  that  as  he  had  shared  the 
risk,  he  should  have  one-third  the  profits.  His 
logic  was  crude,  but  he  maintained  his  position 
with  energetic  ardor,  and  his  peroration  was  de 
livered  in  picturesque  language  that  carried  con 
viction;  and  if  his  witnesses  had  been  empaneled 
as  a  jury,  and  not  called  as  experts  to  testify  to 
the  unwritten  code  of  their  profession,  Sullivan 
would  have  won  his  case  on  his  plea. 

But  the  court,  sitting  in  equity,  was  to  pass  on 
the  law  and  the  facts,  and  before  its  opinion  was 
to  be  delivered,  the  bar-tender  was  kept  busy,  for 
principals  and  witnesses  felt  the  necessity  of  forti 
fying  themselves,  also  of  stimulating  the  judgment 
of  the  court. 

Vanburg  swept  the  crowd  with  a  calm,  judicial 
eye.  Turning  to  his  notes  to  refresh  his  memory 
of  the  evidence,  he  began  slowly,  his  voice  dispas 
sionate;  and  his  hearers  hung  upon  his  well 
rounded  periods  with  the  seasoned  judgment  ob 
tained  by  many  and  varied  experiences  in  courts 
of  justice. 

"This  case,"  he  said,  "involves  questions  of  pro 
fessional  ethics,  at  once  delicate  and  far-reaching 
in  their  results." 

234 


TITO 

A  buzz  of  admiration  from  his  listeners  was  an 
assurance  that  they  appreciated  this  opening  re 
mark. 

"I  am  fully  conscious,"  he  continued,  "that  this 
cause  will  be  a  precedent  to  be  followed,  and,  for 
tunately,  there  is  no  disagreement  as  to  the  facts, 
so  I  shall  confine  myself  to  the  logical  deductions 
of  the  evidence  as  conclusions  of  law  which  should 
govern  the  question  at  issue." 

Vanburg  paused  to  finish  a  glass  of  whiskey.  It 
gave  opportunity  to  one  of  the  expert  witnesses  to 
remark  sotto  voce : 

"Say !    If  he  ain't  de  whole  t'ing !" 

"The  gentlemen  engaged  in  this  controversy," 
Vanburg  resumed,  "occupy  enviable  positions. 
They  are,  to  my  best  knowledge  and  belief,  recog 
nized  as  experts  in  the  very  delicate  profession 
which  they  so  honorably  adorn." 

The  Sheeny  so  far  forgot  himself  and  the  respect 
due  the  court  to  exclaim : 

"Now,  yer  talkin'!  Say!  Yer  kin  just  own  me 
shirt !" 

The  court  scowled  its  disapproval.  Sullivan 
was  incensed.  "T'row  'im  out !"  he  yelled  hoarsely. 
Sheeny's  offer  to  the  court  smacked  of  bribery. 
The  court  raised  his  hand  to  command  silence. 

"Gentlemen,  you  will  please  observe  the  rules  of 
the  court.  I  can  appreciate  the  keen  interest  with 
which  you  are  imbued."  ("Gee!  where  did  he 
collar  dem  words?  They  make  me  head  dizzy.") 
This  from  an  admiring  witness,  "But,"  continued 

235 


TITO 

the  court,   "it  is  the  vital  principle  we  wish  to 
reach." 

"Now,  yer  comin'  ter  it,"  observed  Sullivan. 
"Is  de  deal  on  de  square,  or  isn't  it  on  de  square? 
Dat's  wot  yer  tryin'  ter  say,  isn't  it,  Judge?" 

"Yes,"  the  court  agreed,  "the  only  observable 
difference  being  the  language  with  which  you 
clothe  the  thought.  In  your  words  there  is  more 
zest,  more  life,  less  circumlocution." 

"More  circumlo-hell,"  cried  the  Sheeny.  His 
fist  shot  into  the  air.  "Big  words  don't  stop  the 
bullets,  and  dat  was  wot  I  was  up  against  on  dis 
job.  Say,  give  us  the  limit,  but  give  it  to  us 
quick." 

Vanburg  smiled.  He  knew  the  men  before  him, 
knew  that  whatever  his  decision,  the  losing  party 
would  be  aggrieved,  and  that  a  free  fight  was 
likely  to  follow.  In  his  present  mood  he  was  not 
averse  to  the  excitement,  neither  would  he  turn 
his  back  on  a  personal  encounter  were  it  forced 
upon  him. 

They  had  drunk  much.  With  the  stimulus  of 
the  whiskey,  and  the  excitement  of  the  trial,  the 
gang  was  gradually  working  itself  into  a  state 
when  a  word,  or  a  fancied  injustice,  would  precipi 
tate  trouble.  But  though  Vanburg  appreciated 
the  temper  of  the  crowd,  he  disregarded  the 
Sheeny's  fiery  demand,  his  threatening  aspect 
and,  with  an  aggravating  calmness  of  tone  and 
manner,  prepared  to  resume.  McGlennon's  eyes 
twinkled,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  re 
strained  himself  from  laughing  outright. 

236 


TITO 

"As  I  have  before  stated,"  Vanburg  said,  "the 
question  before  us  is  a  delicate  one,  the  more  so 
because  there  are  no  precedents  to  guide  the  court. 
This  is  riot  a  legal  question  but  a  moral  one,  and 
in  arriving  at  a  decision,  regard  must  be  had  for 
the  sense  of  justice,  and  the  high  standard  of  honor 
between  gentlemen  in  the  profession  of  which  the 
principals  in  this  case,  as  well  as  the  witnesses 
called  by  both  sides,  are  honored  members.  This 
is  not  a  case  for  a  regular  court  of  justice,  for  such 
does  not  recognize  the  art  which  you  so  ably  prac 
tice  ;  neither,  did  you  have  a  standing  in  a  state  or 
federal  tribunal,  would  the  court  take  cognizance 
of  the  delicate  moral  obligations  which  are  not 
only  recognized,  but  practiced  by  members  of  your 
craft.  The  province  of  such  courts  is  to  rule  upon 
the  law  governing  the  case  in  hand,  and  I  may 
safely  hazard  the  opinion  that  even  a  court  of 
equity  would  consider  the  delicate  point  raised  as 
too  remote,  and  in  its  decision  would  be  gov 
erned  by  the  fixed  rules  of  law,  and  not  by  the  deli 
cacies  of  your  unwritten  code — your  code  of 
honor.  The  claim  of  the  defendant  is,  that,  inas 
much  as  he  was,  upon  the  night  of  this — er  pre 
carious  undertaking,  subjected  to  a  fusillade  of 
cold  lead,  he  thereby  should  be  entitled  to  a  por 
tion  of  the  results  commensurate  with  the  danger 
he  ran." 

"Yer  don't  get  right  down  ter  de  groun'  in 
statin'  the  facts,"  the  Sheeny  interrupted,  "but 
yer've  cinched  de  idea." 

"Exactly,"  Vanburg  resumed,  blandly.  He 
237 


TITO 

shot  a  glance  at  McGlennon,  who  looked  intently 
at  the  floor  to  hide  a  smile. 

"But  I  was  about  to  add  that,  it  is  my  opinion, 
when  this  er — what  shall  I  term  it — midnight  mis 
sion  was  undertaken,  all  the  parties,  contemplat 
ing  the  danger,  entered  into  it  upon  equal  terms, 
and  it  is  here,  gentlemen,  where  the  unwritten  law 
of  your  honorable  profession  governs  the  case.  In 
legal  phraseology,  each  of  you  took  the  risk.  This 
risk  was  indivisible;  it  could  not  be  apportioned, 
and  it  might  well  be  that  the  plaintiff  could  have 
had  the  burden  thrust  upon  him  of  stopping  the 
bullets.  Had  such  been  the  case,  he  could  not 
have  demanded  of  the  defendants  an  unequal  share 
in  the  proceeds  of  their  enterprise.  I,  therefore, 
must  find  that,  being  equal  sharers  in  the  risks,  the 
plaintiff  should  be  entitled  to  one-third  the 
amount  realized  by  the  property  in  controversy." 

Maddened  by  the  decision,  the  Sheeny,  with  a 
yell,  rallied  his  supporters  about  him,  and  a  rush 
was  made  on  Vanburg,  and,  as  among  their  class, 
justice  they  consider  their  arch-enemy,  they 
fought  for  a  common  cause,  blindly,  furiously. 
McGlennon,  on  the  instant,  was  beside  his  friend, 
but  in  numbers  they  were  outmatched  five  to  one. 
Tables  and  chairs  were  overturned,  and  those  who 
fell  before  the  terrific  blows  of  the  two  men,  were 
mixed  indiscriminately  on  the  floor,  where  they, 
in  turn,  fought  with  each  other.  But  a  blow  from 
a  broken  chair  felled  the  court,  and  McGlennon, 
wrenching  the  weapon  from  the  hand  of  the  assail- 

238 


TITO 

ant,  saved  Vanburg  from  further  injury.  The 
thieves,  having  vindicated  outraged  justice,  fled  by 
front  and  rear  doors,  leaving  McGlennon  bending 
over  Vanburg,  who  lay  unconscious  on  the  floor — 
the  blood  flowing  from  an  ugly  gash  in  his  head. 


239 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

IN  the  wretched  room  where  he  lodged,  the  day 
following  the  attack  in  the  saloon,  Vanburg 
lay  on  the  bed  unconscious.  Dr.  Remo  had 
just  left,  and  McGlennon  was  alone  with  the  sick 
man.  The  doctor  could  find  no  fracture;  the 
patient  had  been  stunned  by  a  heavy  blow,  and 
Nature  alone  must  be  depended  upon  to  assert 
itself.  Further,  he  would  not  commit  himself,  and 
McGlennon  prepared  to  remain  throughout  the 
day  and  see  that  everything  was  done  for  Van- 
burg's  comfort. 

But  if  Fate  had  treated  him  unkindly  in  bring 
ing  him  to  his  present  helpless  state,  she  made 
amends  by  directing  the  steps  of  Tito  to  the 
wretched  room,  where,  unmindful  of  McGlennon, 
forgetful  of  his  sturdy  manliness,  the  tears  rolled 
down  his  cheeks,  for  he  believed  Vanburg  past  the 
hope  of  recovery. 

The  Scotchman,  in  gentle,  soothing  tones 
quieted  his  fears,  assuring  him  that  the  doctor 
looked  for  a  speedy  recovery;  and  the  boy,  catch 
ing  at  McGlennon's  hopeful,  confident  tone, 
turned  a  yearning,  wistful  glance  to  the  face  on 
the  pillow. 

"What  can  I  do  ?"  asked  the  practical  Tito.  "I, 
too,  must  do  something,  some  work.  I  cannot 

240 


TITO 

remain  with  folded  hands  while  he  is  so  near 
death." 

McGlennon  smiled  at  the  boy's  earnestness. 
Like  nearly  every  one  who  had  come  in  contact 
with  Tito,  he  regarded  him  with  affection.  The 
passionate,  the  emotional,  side  of  the  boy's  charac 
ter  appealed  to  the  rugged  Scotchman,  and  he  had 
noted,  in  their  intercourse,  that  Vanburg  and  the 
boy  had  been  strangely  drawn  to  each  other.  In 
fact,  even  in  the  little  he  had  seen  them  together, 
Vanburg  had  displayed  a  tenderness,  a  fatherly  in 
terest  and  devotion  toward  Tito,  that  the  observ 
ing  McGlennon  was  quick  to  discern — an  interest 
which  he  attributed  to  Vanburg's  natural  warm 
heartedness,  and  his  longing  for  someone  to  fill 
the  void  in  his  childless,  lonely  life.  But  he  also 
realized  that  the  boy  was  old  in  the  knowledge  of 
the  world ;  and,  notwithstanding  his  youth,  the 
Scotchman  himself  had  become  attached  to  the 
lad,  and  there  existed  between  them  that  feeling  of 
comradeship  that  draw  men  closer  than  ties  of 
blood.  It  was  the  freemasonry  of  human  nature, 
the  telegraphy  of  human  hearts  and  kindred  spir 
its,  the  touch  that  makes  all  the  world  akin  and 
God  a  universal  divinity. 

"Yes,"  answered  McGlennon  to  Tito's  demand, 
"you  have  come  in  time.  There  is  nothing  that 
I  can  do,  and  if  you  can  stay  here,  I  will  go  to 
work.  If  I  could  be  of  assistance  I  would  remain, 
but  nothing  further  can  be  done  for  him.  The 
doctor  will  return  in  a  few  hours." 


241 


TITO 

"Should  Mr.  Kent  become  worse  I  will  send  for 
you.  You  do  not  think  he  will  die?" 

With  eager,  questioning  gaze,  Tito  sought  his 
companion's  eyes  to  read  there  the  answer  to  his 
fears. 

''No,"  came  the  confident  response,  "he  is  of 
rugged  constitution — as  strong  as  an  ox.  He  got 
a  pretty  bad  clip,  but  he'll  pull  through.  There  is 
no  fracture,  and  the  doctor  believes  that  some  time 
to-day  he  will  recover  consciousness." 

After  briefly  recounting  how  Vanburg  had  re 
ceived  his  injury,  McGlennon  went  out  and  Tito 
was  left  alone  with  the  sick  man. 

Tito  sat  beside  the  bed,  his  eyes  fixed  on  Van- 
burg's  face,  his  breathing  barely  perceptible,  and 
as  the  boy  looked,  fear  controlled  him.  Gently  he 
laid  his  hand  on  the  white  forehead,  expecting  the 
chill  of  death  to  meet  his  touch.  A  moan,  faint, 
almost  as  a  breath,  brought  new  courage  to  the 
boy, — his  heartbeats  quickened  at  the  sound,  and 
a  sigh  of  relief,  of  joy,  quivered  on  the  air. 

"He  will  live,  that  I  know,  he  is  so  strong, 
as  the  big  fellow  says,  as  an  ox,  and  his  blood  is 
thick  and  rich ;  and  the  beasts  struck  him  down — 
even  as,  in  my  country,  they  fell  an  ox.  Ah !  but 
the  cowards  dare  not  stand  before  him  and  meet 
his  blows !  They  fight  from  behind.  How  I  wish 
I  had  been  there!  I,  too,  would  have  taken  a 
hand,  and  I  would  have  singled  out  the  beast  who 
attacked  him,  and  fixed  my  fingers  on  his  dirty 
throat — like  a  bulldog  that  will  never  let  go." 

Again  he  looked  at  Vanburg  with  a  tender, 
242 


TITO 

compassionate  glance,  and  smoothed  his  hair  with 
touch  as  light  as  a  mother's  kiss  on  the  lips  of  a 
sleeping  child.  The  man  before  him  was  as  a 
fallen  hero,  and  the  strength,  the  courage  that  he 
adored  was  as  naught,  his  utter  helplessness  touch 
ing  the  boy  with  a  great  pity,  stirring  his  heart 
in  which  love  had  taken  root.  What  if  he  should 
die,  this  new  friend,  this  man  whose  voice  had 
trembled  with  emotion  when  he,  Tito,  the  name 
less  Tito,  had,  after  his  week's  stay  with  him,  bade 
him  good  bye?  Why  should  this  stranger  have 
cared,  why  have  taken  an  interest  in  him?  Why 
had  his  voice  grown  husky  when  he  learned  of  the 
father  who  had  disowned  him,  the  father  whom  he 
sought  ?  He  could  not  tell,  but  it  was  strange  that 
it  should  be  so,  and  though  he  had  not  the  power 
to  divine  the  reason,  stranger  still  that  in  his  own 
heart  there  came  a  thrill  of  joy  that  the  man  should 
care.  And  after  the  boy's  illness,  when  he  had  left 
him,  the  thought  was  ever  alive  that  there  was 
one  who  would  be  glad  should  he  return,  in  whose 
eyes  he  had  seen  the  tears,  whose  lips  had  touched 
his  forehead  as  a  father  might  have  kissed  him, 
had  that  father  cared  to  call  him  son.  And  now 
the  good  friend  whom  he  had  come  to  see,  of 
whom  he  had  thought  through  the  days  and  the 
nights,  who  had  the  power  to  fill  him  with  joyful 
anticipation  of  their  meeting,  was  as  one  dead. 
Perhaps  he  would  never  speak  again,  and,  at  the 
possibility,  the  boy  choked  back  a  sob,  and  the 
ready  tears  glistened  in  his  eyes. 

"I  will  have  him  well  again,"  he  said  aloud,  his 
243 


TITO 

tones  low,  but  earnest.  "I  will  pray  to  the  Ma 
donna.  But  I  do  not  know  how  to  pray.  Would 
she  hear  me, — rne  ?  I  will  try,  very  hard,  and  oh ! 
Madonna  Mia,  thou  wilt  listen  to  me,  Tito,  whom 
thou  lovest  not.  But  it  is  not  for  myself  I  ask, 
but  for  him  to  be  well  again  and  strong.  Thou 
wilt  hear  me,  Madonna,  and  give  him  his  life  back, 
that  he  may  speak  to  Tito  again.  Thou  wilt  not  be 
deaf  when  I  call  to  Thee  for  that  I  am  Tito,  the 
'Little  Devil?'  Ah!  Thou  wilt  be  good  to  him 
who  was  so  gentle  to  me,  and  I  will  learn  the 
words,  the  words  they  say  when  they  ask  of  Thee 
a  favor,  and  with  them  I  shall  thank  Thee,  and 
perhaps  Thou  wilt  be  pleased,  that  I,  Tito,  have 
learned  to  pray,  to  speak  the  words  of  Thy  Christ 
Son/' 

The  bare  walls  gave  back  the  tones  of  his  voice, 
earnest,  entreating,  rising  in  supplication,  falling 
in  a  cadence  of  piteous  appeal ;  and,  as  if  in  answer 
to  his  petition,  the  head  on  the  pillow  moved,  the 
lips  parted  as  if  to  speak,  and  the  boy,  breathless, 
listened  to  the  one  word,  uttered  in  half  a  whisper, 
half  a  sigh— "Bettina." 

Tito's  lips  formed  the  word  but  he  could  not 
articulate.  He  remained  silent,  motionless,  wait 
ing  for  Vanburg  to  speak  again,  but  he  had  re 
lapsed  into  his  former  comatose  state. 

"Bettina,"  repeated  the  boy,  amazed,  wonder  in 
his  eyes  and  voice,  "how  should  he  know  the 
name?  I  had  not  told  him.  Ah!  Tito,  thou  dost 
know  but  little.  Is  it  not  a  name  common  in  my 

244 


TITO 

own  country?  Does  he  not  know  dear  Italia  bet 
ter  than  I ?" 

Sudden  alarm,  hope,  dread  expectancy,  in  mo 
mentary  Hashes,  shone  from  his  eyes,  as  varying 
emotions  swept  over  him.  The  quiet  of  the  room 
filled  him  with  trembling  fear.  "What  if  he  should 
die! — and  I  alone?"  he  mused.  Then  bending 
over  the  pillow  he  asked  in  a  voice  of  pathetic 
tenderness : 

"Can  I  do  naught  for  thee?  Wilt  thou  not 
speak  to  me?  It  is  I,  Tito." 

Quick  came  the  response  in  a  tone  that  died 
upon  the  lips : 

"Bettina,  love,  it  is  I,  Horace." 

Had  the  boy's  voice  the  power  to  touch  some 
responsive  chord  in  the  brain  that  was  dead  to  all 
other  sounds?  Had  the  memories  of  the  dead 
Bettina  been  the  first  to  respond  and  awaken  the 
faculties?  Could  love  work  a  miracle  where 
human  science  had  failed?  Perhaps  it  was  so,  for 
again  Tito,  bending  over  the  pillow,  whispered: 

"Bettina." 

"Yes,  love,"  came  the  reply  with  an  effort. 
With  a  convulsive  sigh  Vanburg  opened  his  eyes, 
but  the  effort  was  accompanied  by  a  painful 
twitching  of  the  muscles  of  the  face,  and  almost 
immediately  he  sank  into  his  former  stupor. 

"Ah!  He  will  live."  Joy  leaped  into  Tito's 
heart,  that  a  few  moments  before  was  filled  with 
sorrow,  and  a  fear  that  was  overpowering. 

"Madonna,"  he  said  aloud,  "Thou  hast  answered 
me  when  I  have  prayed,  and  I  thank  Thee;  but 

245 


TITO 

Thou  must  read  it  in  my  heart,  for  my  tongue  is 
tied  with  joy  and  I  cannot  find  the  words.  Thou 
wilt  understand,  Madonna  Mia,  for  the  words  I 
have  never  learned,  and  now  that  Thou  hast  heard, 
shall  I  talk  to  Thee  each  day,  and  I  shall  learn  a 
prayer,  the  prayers  that  they  .say  in  the  Mass." 

The  color  was  gradually  coming  into  Vanburg's 
cheeks.  A  soft  moan  escaped  him,  and  again  he 
opened  his  eyes,  but  with  no  sign  of  returning 
reason.  Tito  laid  his  hand  lightly  on  the  forehead 
of  the  sick  man,  then,  smoothing  the  pillow,  waited 
with  deep  drawn  breath  some  word  or  sign  of 
consciousness. 

The  boy  spoke  to  him  gently,  soothingly,  but 
there  came  no  reply.  Again  the  dead  quiet  within, 
the  rumbling  roar  of  the  city,  hope  battling  with 
fear,  the  faint  breathing  from  the  bed — a  sickening 
dread  again  took  possession  of  the  silent  watcher. 

Suddenly  Tito  was  startled  by  the  voice,  the 
tones  clear,  rational;  but  in  the  speaker's  eyes, 
fixed,  staring,  there  was  the  vacuity  of  madness. 

"The  old  woman  always  hated  me;  she  could 
not  hide  it.  Often  have  I  heard  her  swear  by  the 
saints  that  she  would  be  avenged;  but  Bettina, 
love,  I  did  not  love  thee  less." 

Then  followed  rambling,  disjointed  sentences; 
and  Vanburg,  bit  by  bit,  gave  the  story  of  his  life 
in  Florence;  the  joy  of  his  meeting  with  Bettina 
after  an  absence  in  America,  now  in  the  country 
where  they  sketched  together,  again,  in  imagina 
tion,  wandering  through  the  Florentine  galleries, 
and  he  babbled  on  of  art  and  of  love,  of  hopes  that 

246 


TITO 

were  never  to  be  fulfilled,  of  joy  that  the  hand 
of  Fate  had  frozen  in  the  bud. 

Tito  listened  as  one  turned  to  stone.  He  dared 
not  think,  he  could  not  reason;  his  mind  was  in  a 
turmoil;  astonishment  gave  place  to  fear,  fear  to 
sorrow,  conjectures  flooded  his  brain,  a  thousand 
questions  leaped  to  his  lips,  but  his  courage  had 
deserted  him,  his  faculties  were  benumbed  and  he 
had  not  the  power  to  speak.  A  stupor  took  pos 
session  of  him  and  at  last  the  words  to  which  he 
listened  struck  upon  his  hearing  as  meaningless 
sounds.  Gradually  the  voice  ceased  from  exhaus 
tion,  and  again  the  terrible  silence,  the  long  drawn 
respiration  of  the  man,  foreshadowing  sleep.  The 
boy's  quick,  gasping  breaths  told  of  turmoil,  of 
madness ;  still  he  sat  by  the  bed,  silent  as  those  are 
silent  who  pause  to  choose  between  life  and  death ; 
speechless,  as  are  those  who  dare  not  trust  their 
voices,  that  fear  their  own  passion,  and  know  that 
inaction  is  their  only  safeguard. 

The  minutes  became  years,  eternities,  and  his 
short  life  was  spread  before  him,  seeing  it  all,  liv 
ing  it  all,  in  its  pastoral  beauty  when  Nature  spoke 
to  him  in  tones  of  love  that  roused  within  him  all 
his  finer  instincts,  when  the  fields  and  the  flowers 
and  the  birds  told  to  him  their  story  of  love  and 
beauty,  the  gifts  of  the  God  he  should  know,  he 
should  love.  These  had  been  the  companions  of 
his  misguided  youth, — years  that  had  been  barren 
of  human  sympathy,  of  human  love.  To  these  he 
had  poured  out  his  young  heart,  his  boyish 
troubles,  his  hopes,  his  ambitions.  No  human 

247 


TITO 

hand  or  heart  to  guide  him;  no  gentle  voice  to 
soothe  the  bitterness  that  rankled  in  his  breast,  to 
check  the  torrents  of  passion,  called  forth  by  the 
daily  taunts,  and  the  shame  of  being  nameless. 

The  emotions  awakened  by  the  memories 
blended  into  sorrow,  regret  for  the  fruitless  years 
of  his  youth,  brightened  only  by  the  voice  of 
Nature  speaking  to  his  better  instincts.  Like  a 
fetid  mist  an  unwholesome  vision  rose  before  him, 
the  remorseless  visage  of  the  old  woman,  each 
wrinkle  in  her  face  a  line  of  hate,  every  tone  of 
her  voice  crying  her  vow  of  vengeance.  In  the 
sullen  roar  rolling  through  the  open  window  he 
heard  her  words :  the  cry  of  a  lost  soul,  damned  for 
the  vengeance  she  claimed,  trading  her  hope  of 
Heaven  for  the  fulfilment  of  the  vow  she  would  not 
renounce. 

"Remember  thy  vow,  my  Tito,  remember  thy 
vow — do  not  forget,  do  not  forget !" 

Her  words  died  into  an  echo,  an  echo  merging 
with  the  rumble  and  the  roar. 

With  a  start  and  an  impetuous  gesture  he  rose 
quickly  and  stood  gazing  at  the  form  on  the  bed, 
the  faint  breathing  alone  denoting  life. 

It  is  not  good  to  hear  the  young  laugh  with  the 
bitterness  that  comes  only  when  faith  in  mankind 
dies,  when  hope  is  strangled  and  whatever  is  left 
in  life  is  not  worth  an  effort.  Such  mirth  is  for 
those  old  in  years,  old  in  the  world's  sorrows,  dis 
appointments,  those  who  have  played  the  game  of 
life  to  the  finish,  have  staked  all  on  the  turn  of  a 
card,  and  have  found  their  ill-fated  destinies  still 

248 


TITO 

in  the  ascendant,  recording  in  life's  notebook  their 
last  despairing  efforts. 

It  was  such  a  laugh  that,  for  a  moment,  caused 
Vanburg  to  stir  convulsively;  and  the  boy,  stop 
ping  suddenly,  listened  to  hear  him  speak,  but 
once  more  he  sank  into  unconsciousness. 

"Bettina,  the  old  woman  hated  him,"  Tito's 
voice  was  husky.  "Why  should  I  think  of  it!  I 
am  mad  !  Fool,  Tito,  thou  art  indeed  simple !  As 
if  there  were  not  many  of  the  name — many  who 
hated  as  the  old  woman  did ;  and  when  I  lay  here 
for  a  week,  was  he  not  as  gentle  as  a  mother?  and 
now  these  devilish  thoughts  come  to  me!  What 
if  it  should  be  true!  Ha!  I  reason  like  a  babe, 
and  he — he  is  as  poor  as  I — and  I  have  not  enough 
money  to  buy  him  a  plate  of  soup.  But  he  shall 
have  it,  aye,  that  he  shall,  for  will  I  not  go  to  him 
who  would  pay  me  for  singing — the  one  who  is 
rich,  whose  sister  is  of  the  beauty  of  a  goddess. 
To  him  will  I  say,  'Now  will  I  sing  for  thee,  for 
thy  friends,  and  if  I  sing  well,  thou  shalt  pay  me, 
that  my  good  friend  may  have  the  best, — he  who 
gave  to  me.'  Bettina,  Bettina,"  he  whispered  the 
words,  bending  over  Vanburg,  "why  wilt  thou  not 
wake  and  tell  me?  Madonna  Mia,  let  him  hear 
me  and  speak." 

There  was  magic  in  the  words,  in  the  voice,  and 
Vanburg's  eyes  opened  wearily,  a  gleam  of  intelli 
gence  being  followed  by  a  faint  smile. 

"Tito,  my  good  Tito." 

His  voice  was  weak,  but  the  words  vibrated  with 
tenderness.  A  great  joy  sent  the  tears  into  the 

249 


TITO 

eyes  of  the  boy.  He  could  not  trust  his  voice,  and 
the  words  he  would  speak  died  into  convulsive 
sobs,  which,  with  a  manly  effort,  he  choked  back. 

"Tito,"  came  the  voice  again. 

"Ah !"  he  replied  in  a  trembling  whisper,  "thou 
knowest  me,  thou  wilt  be  well  again.  The  Ma 
donna  has  heard,  and  thou  wilt  live.  Speak  again 
and  then  I  shall  know  it  is  true." 

"Tito,  dear  little  Tito,  Heaven  must  have  sent 
thee." 

"Aye,  Heaven  sent  me,  but  it  has  treated  thee 
badly.  Tell  me  what  I  may  do  that  will  give  thee 
comfort.  Ah !  I  feared — I  feared  that  thou 
wouldst  not  speak  again ;  but  that  has  passed." 

"How  long  have  I  lain  here,  boy?" 

Vanburg's  eyes  were  closed  and  he  spoke  with 
an  effort. 

"Since  last  night,  and  it  is  now  late  in  the  day ; 
the  sunlight  is  fast  going.  It  will  soon  be  night 
again." 

"I  heard  your  voice,  it  was  the  voice  of  one — 
one  who  is  dead ;  but  I  could  not  understand. 
Why  could  I  not  have  slept  on — the  great  sleep, 
with  no  awakening  ?  Yes,  Tito,  Heaven  hath  been 
most  unkind :  for  I  wake  with  memory  still  very 
much  alive.  The  fight  must  still  go  on,  until  I 
worry  Fate  into  reason." 

"But,"  replied  the  boy,  "thou  art  not  alone,  for 
am  I  not  here?  And  when  thou  wert  as  one  dead, 
did  I  not  pray  to  the  Madonna  that  thou  mightest 
live?  I,  who  had  never  prayed  before?  And  the 
good  Mother  heard.  And  when  thou  didst  speak, 

250 


TITO 

it  was  of  her  whom  thou  call'st  Bettina.    Thou  hast 
loved  her  well?" 

"Yes,  boy,  I  loved  her  well."  His  voice  was 
tender,  the  words  faltering.  "And  when  you,  Tito, 
speak,  it  is  her  voice  I  hear,  your  eyes  are  hers. 
When  you  sang,  it  was  her  tones  I  heard,  the  Arno 
singing  with  joy,  for  her  voice  was  of  Heaven." 

"And  she  was  an  artist?  That  I  have  heard 
thee  say." 

"Yes.  And  your  touch,  like  hers,  is  firm  and 
sure,  though  unskilled." 

"And,"  Tito  faltered,  "and  thou  hast  spoken  of 
the  old  woman,  one  who  hated  thee." 

"Poor  creature!"  was  the  reply.  "Bettina's 
aunt,  she  never  forgave  me  for  loving  her.  But 
her  hatred  for  me  was  born  of  her  love  for  Bettina. 
I  forgave  her." 

"Did  she,  too,  die?" 

"No,"  replied  Vanburg  wearily,  "as  far  as  I 
know  she  yet  lives,  brooding  over  her  loss,  which 
was  mine ;  but  even  death  could  not  mollify  her." 

Tito  remained  silent,  his  eyes  on  Vanburg's  face. 
He  longed  to  question  further,  but  dared  not. 
Again  fears  and  doubts  rilled  him  with  tor 
ment  ;  again  the  belief  forced  itself  upon  him  that 
Vanburg's  Bettina  was  the  Bettina  whom  he  had 
sworn  to  avenge.  He  trembled  with  emotion 
that  threatened  to  overcome  him:  his  lips  formed 
the  words  to  wring  the  truth  from  the  man  who 
might  be  the  one  he  sought,  the  father  who  had 
disowned  him. 

"What  if  it  should  be  true?" 
251 


TITO 

Instantly  he  was  afire  with  passion,  his  eyes 
glowed,  the  fever  of  hate  seemed  to  burn  in  his 
veins,  his  throat  was  parched ;  but  a  glance  at  the 
man  before  him,  helpless  as  a  child,  and  his  mo 
mentary  rage  melted  into  pity,  shame,  at  the 
cowardice  of  his  own  thoughts.  But  he  must 
know,  he  must  learn  whether  it  were  true,  or  were 
his  fears  the  madness  of  childish  fancy.  How 
should  he  learn  ?  Could  he  ask  him  to  speak  again 
of  her,  the  mention  of  whose  name  awakened  a  life 
sorrow?  He  waited,  eager,  breathless,  for  Van- 
burg  to  resume  his  story,  but  his  breathing, 
scarcely  audible,  told  that  his  silence  was  that  of 
exhaustion. 

Vanburg's  voice  again  broke  the  quiet.  Tito 
bent  over  him,  for  his  voice  was  low. 

"You  have  not  eaten,  boy.  You  should  be 
hungry.  I  have  money — " 

"No,"  replied  Tito,  "I  could  not  eat.  I  was 
thinking  of  all  thou  hast  told  me,  of  her  whom 
thou  mournest,  of  Florence — " 

"Ah !  Dear  Florence,"  Vanbttrg  sighed.  "It  is 
strange,  but  I,  too,  was  thinking,  forever  thinking. 
Does  it  interest  thee,  boy?" 

"Yes.  When  thou  art  well  again,  thou  wilt  tell 
me  more." 

"I  shall  never  be  well  again.  I  will  tell  thee  now, 
boy,  if  it  will  please  thee,  for  it  is  when  thou  art 
near  me  that  I  think.  Thy  voice  is  an  echo  of  the 
two  short  years — years  that  were  Heaven.  Since 
then,  life  has  been  as  nearly  a  blank  as  I  could 
make  it." 

252 


TITO 

"But  them  wert  not  always  as — as  them  art  now 
—poor?" 

"No,  not  always." 

The  smile  that  accompanied  the  words  was  as  a 
remembrance  of  the  Vanburg  of  years  that  had 
passed. 

"And  thou  wert  once  rich  ?" 

"I  was  rich  only  in  what  I  lost ;  poorer  than  thou 
art,  my  Tito,  in  the  philosophy  of  the  world's 
knowledge.  But  of  that  I  cannot  speak.  That, 
too,  is  dead." 

The  boy  listened  while  Vanburg  told  of  the  two 
years  of  his  life  in  Italy,  listened  with  the  growing 
conviction  that  what  he  heard  was  an  epitome  of 
his  father's  and  his  mother's  life  during  the  two 
years  preceding  his  birth,  listened  while  a  hand  of 
ice  fastened  upon  his  heart,  until  at  last  he  paid 
no  heed  to  the  feeble  voice  that  spoke  in  a  whisper. 

"It  was  in  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  that  she  fin 
ished  her  last  picture,  and  with  a  child's  enthusi 
asm  begged  me  to  sign  my  name  with  hers.  We 
both  signed  it,  'Horace  and  Bettina/  the  letters 
twined  together.  What  would  I  not  give  for  it 
now;  but  the  old  woman  took  it  with  the  rest." 

"Was — was  it  the  portrait  of  the  Madonna  and 
the  Child?"  Tito's  voice  was  unnatural.  Van 
burg  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  inquiringly  at 
the  boy. 

"Yes."  he  replied,  his  head  again  sinking  on  the 
pillow. 

Tito's  hand  closed  upon  the  painting  which  he 
always  carried  in  the  pocket  of  his  jacket,  the  por- 

253 


TITO 

trait  that  would  tell  him  what  he  would  know. 
The  names,  if  they  were  there,  had  escaped  his 
notice,  and  the  desire  to  examine  it  and  set  his 
doubts  at  rest  was  almost  uncontrollable.  But 
there  was  a  further  question  that  he  would  ask, 
before  Vanburg  sank  into  the  sleep  of  weariness. 

"The  old  woman  and  Bettina  were  all?  Was 
there  no  child,  no  son?" 

"No,"  was  the  reply.    "No." 

The  voice  died.  The  reaction  had  overtaken 
Vanburg  arid  sleep  shut  out  all  sound.  Tito  sat 
as  one  dazed,  unable  to  move.  He  could  not 
think,  and  the  minutes  went  by  unheeded.  He 
was  conscious  that  some  terrible  misfortune  en 
gulfed  him ;  conscious  that  his  fingers  touched  the 
portrait  that  would  tell  him  all  that  he  would  know, 
yet  with  the  sensation  of  one  who  is  to  hear  his 
death  sentence  pronounced,  he  dare  not  draw  it 
forth  to  look  for  the  proof.  What  would  he  do  if 
the  names  were  on  the  portrait  as  Vanburg  had 
described  ?  "Why,  oh,  God !"  he  muttered,  "why 
hast  Thou  guided  me  aright?  Why  didst  Thou 
spare  his  life  when  I  asked  it  of  Thee,  that  I,  his 
son,  might  take  it  with  my  own  hand?  Ah!  Ma 
donna  Mia,  and  I  believed  Thee  kind!  When 
Thou  couldst  have  let  him  die,  and  I  should  never 
have  known,  and  now  Thou  hast  given  him  his  life 
and  taken  my  soul.  All  will  be  black.  And  in 
the  dead  night  will  he  come  to  me,  and  I  shall  see 
him  as  I  see  him  now,  sleeping.  There  will  be  the 
awful  red  stain  left  by  the  knife,  and  I  can  never 
hide  from  it  or  shut  out  the  sight.  Then  I  shall 

254 


TITO 

see  her  devil's  face,  hear  her  voice,  but  also  shall 
I  hear  his  voice,  speaking  so  gently,  'Tito,  boy,  I 
am  glad  you  have  come  back,'  and  it  will  ring  in 
my  ears,  always,  always ;  but  in  the  night  it  will  be 
more  sorrowful,  and  go  where  Heaven's  vengeance 
may  lead  me,  I  can  never  shut  out  the  sound — 
never,  never." 

Unconsciously  he  had  drawn  the  picture  from 
his  pocket,  and  his  trembling  fingers  held  it  with 
the  face  turned  from  him.  His  own  face  was 
drawn,  haggard,  the  blood  had  left  his  cheeks — 
his  features  those  of  an  old  man.  Again  he  sat 
silent,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  table,  where,  in  its 
scabbard,  lay  "Micky  de  Pinch's"  knife.  The  sight 
of  the  knife  sent  the  blood  leaping  through  his 
veins,  he  caught  his  breath  in  short  gasps,  his 
fingers  closed  upon  the  picture  until  the  frail  wood 
upon  which  it  was  mounted,  snapped.  For  that 
instant  he  was  the  Tito  of  Tuscany,  fierce,  vin 
dictive,  one  emotion  dominating  his  being — 
vengeance. 

Slowly  he  reversed  the  picture  and  held  it  before 
him.  His  hands  trembled,  and  in  the  dim,  uncer 
tain  light,  he  could  see  only  what  appeared  to  be  a 
blur  in  the  right  hand  corner  of  the  canvas.  A 
sigh  of  relief,  a  momentary  hope,  and  with  a  con 
vulsive  gasp  of  joy  he  rose  and,  with  quick,  lithe 
stride,  stood  before  the  window,  and  held  the  por 
trait  toward  the  light. 

A  cry,  a  moan  of  despair  rang  for  an  instant  on 
the  quiet  of  the  room,  and  the  sleeper  moved  un 
easily.  The  hope  to  which  he  had  clung  was  shat- 

2.S5 


TITO 

tered,  for  Tito  read  the  names,  the  letters  inter 
woven  in  delicate  tracery — "Horace — Bettina." 

He  stood  motionless,  all  doubt  removed,  the 
terror  of  certainty  with  him,  for  it  was  the  truth 
that  he  feared,  the  truth  that  made  his  heart  seem 
as  ice,  the  sweat  to  stand  in  beads  on  brow  and 
face,  and  despair  to  set  his  faculties  whirling,  leav 
ing  him  powerless  to  move.  At  last  the  vengeance 
he  had  sought  was  to  be  his ;  the  moment  for  which 
he  had  longed,  had  dreamed,  had  prayed  for,  was 
here.  No  need  for  further  search,  his  mission  in 
life  was  to  be  fulfilled,  for  there,  before  him,  sleep 
ing,  his  gentle  breathing  that  of  a  child,  lay  the 
father  whose  life  he  had  sworn  should  wipe  out  his 
own  disgrace.  Within  the  hour  had  he  not 
listened  when,  with  his  own  lips,  this  father 
affirmed  that  he  had  no  son?  There  would  be  no 
faltering,  his  was  a  duty  that  waited  no  more  pro 
pitious  time.  One  stroke  of  the  knife,  the  thief's, 
which  lay  within  his  reach — the  knife  he  had  turned 
away  from  the  man  whose  life  he  would  now  take, 
and  it  would  be  ended.  Again  could  he  return  to 
his  own  Italia,  again  could  he  meet  those  who  had 
looked  upon  him  with  disdain,  proud  in  the  con 
sciousness  that  he  had,  with  his  own  hand,  avenged 
his  honor.  No  more  could  they  taunt  him,  and  he 
would  let  the  stain  of  the  blood  remain  on  the 
knife  that  they  might  see,  that  they  might  believe. 
The  blood !  He  shuddered.  What  had  his  father 
said  ?  That  on  every  leaf,  on  every  flower,  would 
be  a  drop  of  crimson  blood — the  blood  of  his  own 
father  to  cry  out  to  him ;  and  one  word  would  ring 

256 


TITO 

forever  in  his  ears — remorse,  remorse,  remorse. 
And  day  and  night  would  there  be  ever  before  hirn 
the  crimson  stain ;  it  would  be  on  his  hands  and  he 
could  not  wash  it  away,  nor  hide  it,  always,  al 
ways  there,  haunting  him,  his  life  one  long  horror. 
And  when  he  drove  the  blade  home,  and  the  blood 
followed  the  steel  as  he  wrenched  it  from  the  quiv 
ering  flesh,  there  would  come  a  cry — a  cry  of  pain 
that  would  ring  forever  in  his  ears.  And  the 
eyes,  ere  they  closed  in  death,  would  turn  to  him 
in  sorrow,  reproach,  haunting  him  with  the  un 
spoken  words:  "And  it  is  thou,  Tito,  who  hast 
done  this?" 

He  grasped  the  knife  in  his  trembling  fingers. 
The  blade  was  keen  and  the  touch  chilled  his 
blood.. 

"I  falter,"  his  voice  had  the  agony  of  death.  "I 
must  not !  Am  I  of  a  coward  race  ?  Am  I  a  woman 
to  be  won  by  soft  words?  Where  now  is  thy 
courage,  Tito,  what  is  it  they  call  thee, — 'Piccolo 
d'Ignoti?'  Aye,  thou  craven  clod,  aye,  that  is  the 
name  by  which  thou  art  known.  Wouldst  thou 
have  another  and  better?  Look  to  it  then  that 
thy  aim  is  true — true  as  this  steel  blade.  Strike 
once  only — and  deep.  See  that  the  knife  reaches 
the  heart,  where  the  blood  is  of  a  deeper  hue ;  and 
now — Heaven  guide  my  hand !" 

Slowly  he  approached  the  bed  and,  standing  be 
side  it,  looked  long  and  intently  on  the  face  of  the 
sleeper. 

"Why  shouldst  Thou  have  willed  it  to  me,  oh, 
God,  to  do  this  deed  ?  Why  could  I  not  have  been 

257 


TITO 

of  the  people  and  worked  in  the  fields,  lived  as  the 
birds  live — free  ?  Then  should  my  mind  have  been 
at  rest,  my  heart  clean,  and  I  should  have  known 
only  the  joy  of  living  and  of  loving  Thee.  And 
now — now  Thou  hast  condemned  me  to  take  my 
father's  life,  to  know  but  sorrow  and  the  terrible 
fear  that  comes  to  the  damned ;  and  as  Thou  hast 
willed,  so  am  I  to  be  forever  lost." 

He  paused,  then  looking  at  the  sleeper,  con 
tinued  in  tones  of  intense  sorrow : 

"I  could  have  loved  thee,  my  father,  yes,  and 
well,  hadst  thou  cared  to  call  me  son ;  but  hast  thou 
not  just  told  me  I  have  no  father?  Yet,  ah,  God! 
It  is  hard!  I  tremble.  What  if  I  should  fail! 
Pietro,  I  have  looked  upon  thee  as  inhuman — a 
fiend !  I  have  hated  thee,  feared  thee,  for  the  Devil 
is  thy  master.  Now  do  I  ask  thee  to  lend  me  thy 
strength,  thy  courage,  thy  hate,  for  my  heart  sick 
ens  with  fear,  with  dread,  with — I  will  confess  it — 
aye,  to  Heaven  alone,  that  I  must  strike  him 
whom  I  love.  I  cannot  strike  him  in  his  sleep.  I 
will  wake  him  and  crv  out  to  him  that  death  is 
here." 

Firmly  he  clutched  the  knife  and  raised  it  in 
the  air.  Vanburg  stirred  and  his  lips  parted : 

"Tito,"  the  tones  were  those  of  a  child.  "When 
you  speak,  it  is  her  voice  I  hear — Bettina's." 

Tito's  hand  fell  to  his  side,  and,  with  a  choking 
sob,  he  turned  his  head  away. 

"I  cannot,  T  cannot."  His  voice  was  husky ;  in 
his  eyes  was  the  awful  fear  of  those  who  had  faced 
death  and  chance  had  intervened.  Vanburg's 

258 


TITO 

voice  had  stirred  him  to  the  very  depths  of  his 
soul;  and  he  realized  that  the  words,  spoken  by 
his  father  in  his  sleep,  had  saved  him  from  the 
crime  of  parricide.  An  icy  chill  swept  over  him; 
the  impulse  to  get  away  became  uncontrollable 
and  he  looked  about  him,  his  eyes  dilating  with 
fear — the  fear  that  his  passion  would  again  steel 
his  heart  to  the  flood  of  pity,  of  sorrow,  of  remorse 
that  had  stayed  his  vengeance. 

Mechanically  he  placed  the  portrait  on  the 
chair  beside  the  bed,  then,  tearing  a  leaf  from  his 
sketch-book,  scrawled  the  words — "She  who 
painted  this  was  my  mother."  Signing  the  name, 
"Tito,"  he  placed  the  note  on  the  picture,  then, 
without  glancing  at  the  sleeper,  rushed  from  the 
room. 


259 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  dusk  of  evening  was  closing  in  on  the  city 
when  Vanburg  awoke,  refreshed,  but  with  a 
feeling  of  extreme  weakness.  The  room  was 
quite  dark,  and  with  a  painful  effort  he  rose  and 
peered  through  the  gloom.  There  was  no  sound, 
and  realizing  that  he  was  alone,  with  unsteady 
step  he  groped  his  way  to  the  mantel  and  lighted 
an  oil  lamp.  In  a  dazed  way  again  he  looked 
about  him — nothing  but  barrenness  within,  and 
the  sound  of  the  city  chanting  its  night  song 
through  the  open  windows.  Sitting  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed  he  pressed  his  throbbing  temples  with 
his  hands.  He  was  confused,  his  brain  was  in  a 
whirl  and,  closing  his  eyes,  he  sought  to  weave  the 
incidents  of  the  past  night  and  day  into  some  tang 
ible  form. 

"Have  I  dreamed  that  the  boy  was  here?" 
He  spoke  aloud,  and  the  sound  of  his  voice, 
weak,  unnatural,  brought  a  smile  to  his  lips. 

"They  must  have  knocked  my  reasoning  facul 
ties  into  a  cocked  hat,  or  into  a  cocked  head.  I 
believe  the  latter  nearest  to  its  present  condition, 
for  it  now  is  of  wood — pulp  at  that,  with  a  filling  of 
lead ;  or  have  I  been  dreaming,  seeing  things,  hear 
ing  voices.  Surely  the  boy  was  here,  though  as 
surely  he  is  not  here  now.  Certain  am  I  that  I 

260 


TITO 

talked  with  him,  but  I  suppose  that,  too,  is  one  of 
the  vagaries  of  a  cracked  head.  Heigh-ho!  'the 
way  of  the  transgressor' — but  that  is  too  old  and 
worn  to  quote.  I  shall  be  persuading  myself  that 
I  was  not  the  presiding  justice  at  a  certain  trial  at 
Joe's — he  of  the  House  of  Death.  However,  my 
head  will  bear  evidence  of  the  fact,  even  if  the  boy 
was  a  myth,  a  chimera  of  the  brain.  There  are 
many  conditions  of  delirium,  but  seeing  peo 
ple  and  conversing  with  them  is,  in  my  opinion, 
if  I  am  now  in  a  condition  to  form  one,  most  tan 
talizing.  There  is  no  doubt  that  I  am,  at  the  pres 
ent  moment,  very  much  alone ;  and  my  legs  are  as 
wobbly  as  my  head.  In  fact,  had  I  the  power  of 
locomotion  left  to  me  I  would  go  out,  if  for  no 
other  purpose  to  collect  the  shattered  ends  of  my 
reasoning  powers;  else  my  nerves  will  be  playing 
tricks  with  me  and  I  shall  again  be  seeing  things." 

His  hands  again  sought  his  head  to  ease  the 
throbbing,  and  his  glance  rested  on  the  portrait — 
the  slip  of  paper  on  which  Tito  had  written  lying 
upon  it.  From  where  he  was  sitting  in  the  dim 
light,  he  did  not  recognize  it,  but  he  knew  it  was 
not  his,  and  with  a  painful  effort  he  placed  the  pic 
ture  in  an  upright  position  on  the  chair  and,  taking 
the  paper,  sank  back  wearily  on  the  bed. 

"Now,  here  is  another  form  of  delirium — a  por 
trait  in  oil,  and  a  scrap  of  paper  beside  it;  a  bill 
probably.  Some  considerate  dealer,  knowing  me 
to  be  a  connoisseur  in  art,  has  sent  me  an  oil  on 
approval,  with  a  bill." 

He  laughed  softly. 

261 


TITO 

"Well,  perhaps  that  is  another  form  of  seeing 
things  that  are  not.  Am  I  receiving  a  picture  in 
oil  with  a  written  guarantee  of  the  dealer  that  it  is  a 
genuine  Titian  ?  or  will  I  presently  awake  and  find 
that  I  have  been  dreaming  again,  this  time  delving 
into  the  realms  of  art?" 

He  glanced  at  the  paper  and  with  an  effort  read 
the  words  that  Tito  had  written. 

"I  presume,"  he  muttered,  "that  this  is  part  of 
the  illusion;  this  that  I  hold  is  not  paper  at  all, 
neither  are  there  words  written  on  it,  and  the  name 
signed  at  the  foot  is  a  mental  photograph,  the 
words  being  focused  in  my  brain  and,  by  a  proc 
ess  unknown  to  science,  thrown  upon  this  paper. 
What  I  hold  is  not  paper,  neither  do  I  see  words; 
it  is  all  an  after-effect  of  a  stroke  of  a  chair,  dealt 
by  the  gentleman  who  couldn't  agree  with  my 
judgment  of  facts  or  my  knowledge  of  law. 

"The  question  now  is  how  much  of  all  this  is 
hallucination,  how  much  reality  ?  Is  this  paper  that 
I  hold  in  my  hand?  Is  the  name  in  truth  that  of 
the  boy — Tito  ?  If  it  is,  then  he  was  here,  and  on 
that  subject  I  am  partially  sane.  'She  who  painted 
this  portrait  was  my  mother,'  he  read  aloud.  Is 
the  boy  as  mad  as  I?  Surely  he  must  have  been 
here  to  have  left  this  writing.  I  wish  he  would 
come  back  and  tell  me  more  of  himself  and  his 
mother,  and  incidentally  to  assure  me  that  I  talked 
with  him  to-day.  The  picture!  What  is  it  like?" 

Taking  the  portrait  from  the  chair  he  held  it  so 
that  the  light  fell  upon  the  painting. 

262 


TITO 

"Now!"  he  exclaimed  hoarsely,  "now  I  know  I 
am  mad  !" 

Staring  at  the  portrait  he  sat  as  one  in  a  trance, 
motionless,  speechless,  for  a  great  fear  was  with 
him,  and  beads  of  perspiration  stood  upon  his  fore 
head.  Though  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  bit  of 
canvas,  the  colors  became  a  blur,  a  mist,  before  his 
eyes,  for  his  brain  was  on  fire  with  the  thought, 
even  the  certainty,  that  his  reason  had  given  way, 
that  what  he  saw  was  a  mental  illusion — a  vision, 
having  its  birth  in  his  disordered  brain.  Sickening 
dread  took  possession  of  him,  for  he  felt  himself 
trembling  upon  the  brink  of  an  abyss  that  would 
blot  out  his  reason,  and  leave  all  a  blank. 

Again  he  moved  the  canvas,  and  the  light,  fall 
ing  obliquely  upon  it,  disclosed  the  beauty  of  the 
portrait  of  the  Virgin  and  the  Child — in  the  corner 
of  the  painting,  his  own  name,  as  he  had  signed  it. 

"Just  Heaven,"  his  voice  trembled  with  fear,  "am 
I  to  be  condemned  to  this  punishment,  to  see  these 
visions?  Is  not  the  grave  of  her  with  whom  my 
love,  my  life  is  buried,  never  to  be  closed?  Am  I 
to  be  tortured  thus — has  the  brain  at  last  begun  to 
give  way,  reason  to  rock,  leaving  me  a  degree  of 
sanity  that  will  insure  the  torture  of  the  damned? 
Be  merciful,  Heaven,  and  grant  me  complete 
oblivion, — blot  out  the  memory  and,  if  my  body, 
with  a  grim  obstinacy,  clings  to  life,  let  reason 
die." 

He  had  placed  the  picture  on  the  chair,  beside 
it  the  slip  of  paper  and,  with  the  strength  that  fear 

263 


TITO 

lent  him,  paced  the  floor,  a  frenzy  of  emotions 
sweeping  over  him.  His  faculties  were  in  a  cha 
otic  state,  the  boy  standing  beside  the  bed  was 
to  him  an  apparition,  his  memory  of  their  conver 
sation  he  attributed  to  the  vagaries  of  an  unbal 
anced  mind.  But  the  portrait?  This  was  some 
thing  tangible,  something  material,  a  substance 
that  he  could  feel,  could  see.  He  dared  not  look 
at  it  again,  for  he  might  then  read  the  proof  of  his 
disordered  mind,  of  a>  distorted  vision,  and  in  place 
of  the  Virgin  and  the  Child,  perhaps  some  horrible 
face  would  leer  at  him  from  out  the  canvas.  He 
could  no  longer  stand  the  stillness  of  the  room, 
there  was  madness  in  the  air,  lurking  in  the  for 
bidding  Avails,  and  the  sound  of  his  own  footfalls 
seemed  to  come  from  cavernous  depths.  He 
would  go  out,  out  into  the  crowd,  where  he  could 
feel  life  about  him,  movement  that  would  give  bal 
ance  to  his  reeling  brain.  Even  as  he  paused  in  his 
walk,  he  staggered  from  weakness. 

A  step  in  the  hall  halted  at  the  door,  which  was 
quietly  opened,  and  McGlennon  entered. 

Vanburg,  with  eyes  that  spoke  his  fears,  stared 
at  his  visitor  as  if  he  expected  to  see  him  dissolve 
into  a  mist;  then,  approaching,  touched  him  with 
trembling  fingers. 

"Eh,  Gad !  You  are  not  dead  yet?"  McGlennon 
said  in  a  hearty  tone. 

Vanburg  grasped  him  by  the  arm  and  led  him  to 
a  chair,  sitting  before  him  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

"Mack,  tell  me  the  truth,  in  God's  name,  tell  me 
the  truth, — am  I  mad  ?" 

264 


TITO 

McGlennon  did  not  immediately  reply,  but 
looked  into  the  staring,  bloodshot  eyes  of  the 
speaker.  For  an  instant  the  horrible  thought  came 
to  him  that  the  blow  Vanburg  had  received  had, 
indeed,  unsettled  his  reason ;  but  in  the  steady,  im 
ploring  eyes  that  met  his  own,  he  read  there  sanity, 
distorted  by  fear,  but  he  saw  no  evidence  of  a  dis 
ordered  intellect. 

"Man,  what  the  devil's  the  matter  with  you? 
Of  course  you're  not  mad;  though,  upon  my  soul, 
the  clip  you  received  from  that  chair  might  have 
knocked  the  reason  out  of  you,  for  a  while,  any 
way." 

"McGlennon,  you  are  a  man  of  honor;  I  was 
once,  but  never  mind  that.  After  hearing  what  I 
have  to  say,  tell  me  on  your  honor  if  I  am  mad. 
i  shall  understand.  You  will  do  this  for  me?" 

McGlennon  laughed  long  and  heartily.  Van- 
burg's  face  betrayed  irritation,  the  laugh  grated  on 
his  over-wrought  nerves,  and  he  raised  his  hand  in 
a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"Kent,"  cried  McGlennon,  "you're  talking  skit 
tles, — rank,  childish  babble!  I'll  hear  no  more  of 
it!  Tell  me  how  your  head  feels.  Not  good,  I 
warrant.  No  wonder  you  talk  a  bit  rattled." 

"Listen  to  me,"  said  Vanburg  with  some  impa 
tience.  "Never  mind  my  head,  answer  me  seri 
ously.  You  came  home  with  me  after  the  row? 
That  T  assume." 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"When  did  you  go  away?" 

265 


TITO 

"This  morning,  after  the  boy  came." 

"Then  he  was  here?" 

"Yes,  I  left  him  here  to  look  after  you.  Why 
the  devil  did  he  go  away?" 

Vanburg  disregarded  the  question.  "He  was 
here,"  he  spoke  as  if  he  were  alone.  "That  much, 
at  least,  is  not  madness.  But  the  other!"  He 
reached  for  the  paper  and  handed  it  to  his  com 
panion.  "Mack,  in  Heaven's  name,  read  that. 
Read  it  aloud." 

McGlennon  read  the  words,  then  looked  at  Van- 
burg,  whose  face  was  colorless,  drawn ;  in  the  past 
hour,  ten  years  had  been  added  by  line  and  furrow, 
and  his  expression  was  that  of  one  whom  old  age 
had  suddenly  overtaken. 

"In  that,  too,  am  I  sane ;  but," — he  took  the  pic 
ture  in  his  hand — "it  is  here  that  reason  has  left 
me!  Look  at  it,  man,  and  tell  me  what  you  see." 

With  trembling  hand  he  pushed  the  picture  be 
fore  McGlennon,  and  waited,  a  look  of  horror  on 
his  face. 

"Speak,"  he  said,  in  husky  tones,  while  he  sup 
pressed  the  emotion  that  threatened  to  overcome 
him.  "In  God's  name,  tell  me  if,  in  this,  my  mind 
is  unbalanced." 

"It  is  the  picture  of  the  Mother  and  the  Child — 
the  Christ,"  McGlennon  said  quietly. 

"Read  the  names  signed  at  the  bottom." 

McGlennon  read  the  names,  then  handed  the 
canvas  to  Vanburg,  and  waited  for  him  to  speak; 
but  he  remained  silent.  Whatever  the  import  of 

266 


TITO 

it  all,  McGlennon  was  quick  to  perceive  that  his 
companion  was  deeply  moved.  Fear  had  given 
place  to  sorrow,  and  the  disappointments,  the  pent 
up  agony  of  the  past  years  seemed  to  surge,  to 
engulf,  to  overwhelm  him.  He  held  the  portrait 
to  the  light,  and,  as  his  eyes  rested  upon  it  in  a 
gaze  of  sorrow,  pity,  love,  no  other  sound  broke 
the  quiet  but  his  deep,  irregular  breathing.  After 
all  the  years  this  bit  of  canvas  had  come  back  to 
him,  a  mysterious  message  from  the  grave,  a  token, 
a  remembrance  of  the  love,  of  the  life  he  had  lost ; 
it  was  there  to  speak  to  him  of  the  wasted  years,  to 
remind  him  of  his  sorrow,  and  to  call  to  life  all 
that  he  had  buried,  but  that  yet  lived.  How  it 
again  had  found  its  way  into  his  life,  by  what  cir 
cuitous  route,  by  what  process  of  events,  by  what 
untoward  circumstances  Tito  had  placed  in  his 
hands  this  last  memento  of  the  life  that  he  would 
forget,  he  could  not  divine.  It  was  here,  the  art  of 
the  dead  Bettina,  the  last  work  that  she  had  fin 
ished.  Heaven  had,  in  the  working  out  of  its 
divine  will,  for  a  purpose  its  own  given  it  to  him 
again,  and  he  questioned  not  its  decree. 

For  the  moment  he  had  lost  sight  of  the  mes 
sage  from  Tito  that  lay  on  the  chair;  had  for 
gotten  McGlennon;  had  forgotten  "all  else  but  the 
memories  that  the  sight  of  the  picture  had  awak 
ened.  Gradually  the  events  of  the  day,  the  advent 
of  Tito,  rose  before  him,  and  it  was  these  that 
caused  him  to  pick  up  the  boy's  message  and  fix 
his  eyes  on  McGlennon's  face,  as  if  to  read  there 

267 


TITO 

the  solution  of  the  mystery  that  confronted  him. 
But  his  thoughts  were  confused.  He  could  not 
reason  with  any  degree  of  intelligence  and  he 
began  to  speak  slowly,  mechanically — his  eyes 
turned  to  his  companion;  but  the  eyes  were  those 
of  the  blind,  for  the  soul  of  the  speaker  was  in  a 
world  where  the  past  and  memory  alone  existed. 

"There  comes  a  time,"  he  said,  "a  first  time  in 
every  man's  life  when  he  must  open  his  heart,  his 
very  soul,  to  someone,  and,  relying  on  his  friend 
ship,  wring  his  heart  dry  of  the  secrets,  the 
troubles,  the  agonies,  that  for  years,  that  seem  as 
centuries,  have  been  locked  within  his  own  breast. 
We  have  known  each  other  long  enough,  have 
shared  good  luck  and  bad,  each  having  had  time 
to  measure  the  other's  worth.  Explanations  are 
not  needed  between  us,  excuses  are  unnecessary; 
yet  you  have  been  more  frank  with  me  than  I 
merit." 

Rain  had  begun  pattering  against  the  window, 
and  an  ominous  rumbling  of  thunder  foreshadowed 
a  tempest.  Within  the  room,  the  measured  mono 
tone  of  the  speaker  fell  upon  the  quiet  almost  with 
a  chant-like  rhythm.  Vanburg's  listener  was 
silent,  his  thoughts  on  the  cause  that  had  the 
power  to  stir  the  speaker  to  the  very  depths  of  his 
soul. 

The  muttering  of  distant  thunder  and  the  com 
plaining  roar  of  the  city  filled  the  interval. 

"When,  on  a  certain  night,"  Vanburg  continued, 
"we  stood  before  the  clubhouse  and  I  told  you 

268 


TITO 

the  story  of  the  man  who  came  to  your  home,  he 
who  offered  you  money — money  which  you  rightly 
refused,  told  you  of  his  wasted  life,  that  he  was 
socially  dead,  I  spoke  the  truth,  but  I  did  not  tell 
you  all.  You  know  the  young  wife,  she  whom  he 
loved,  died ;  that  the  child  that  was  his  hope,  the 
child  he  longed  for,  that  was  to  be  the  fulfilment 
of  his  desires,  was  born  dead.  But  you  did  not 
know  that  the  father,  the  husband,  was  telling  you 
the  story  of  his  own  life ;  for  it  was  I,  my  friend,  I, 
myself,  of  whom  I  spoke." 

Another  silence  followed,  for  McGlennon  did 
not  reply. 

"Then  the  boy,  Tito,  entered  my  life,  and  his 
eyes,  his  voice,  his  features,  brought  before  me  the 
vision  of  her  who  gave  her  life  at  the  birth  of  our 
child,  and  now — " 

He  stopped  suddenly.  Once  more  his  emotions 
seemed  to  overcome  him.  Grasping  the  paper 
from  the  chair,  he  held  it  before  McGlennon. 
Despair  was  in  his  eyes,  in  his  voice. 

"Tell  me,  in  Heaven's  name,  what  does  this 
mean  ?  The  portrait  was  painted  by  my  dead  wife ; 
it  is  one  I  have  not  seen  since  her  death;  and  I 
find  it  here,  in  this  room,  and  beside  it  this  scrap 
of  paper,  signed  by  the  boy,  saying  that  she  who 
painted  it  was  his  mother." 

Grasping  McGlennon  by  the  shoulder,  he  shook 
him  as  if  to  force  him  to  speak.  The  Scotchman 
looked  into  the  ashen  face,  and  the  belief  came  to 
him  that  in  the  eyes  he  read  the  madness  his  com 
panion  feared. 

269 


TITO 

"Cairn  yourself,"  he  said.  Laying  a  restraining 
hand  on  Vanburg,  he  gently  forced  him  to  sit 
on  the  bed.  "You  are  overwrought,  working 
yourself  into  a  fever.  These  things  will  right 
themselves.  Tell  me  what  you  know  of  the  boy. 
What  has  he  told  you?  He  will  come  back  and 
you  can  question  him." 

"No,  he  will  not  return,"  Vanburg  interrupted. 
"Something  tells  me  he  will  not." 

"But  you  say  the  child  died  ?" 

"Yes,  I  was  away — in  Paris — on  business. 
When  I  returned  the  old  woman  told  me  the  child 
was  born  dead.  The  doctor  took  charge  of  the 
body.  Bettina,  my  wife,  lay  unconscious,  but  re 
vived  before  the  end  came.  She,  too,  spoke  of  the 
child  as  dead.  Mack,  in  Heaven's  name,  what  can 
we  do?  How  find  the  boy?  He  told  me  his  story, 
he  was  sworn  to  find  his  father — to  kill  him  for  a 
fancied  wrong.  He  spoke  of  an  old  woman,  an 
aunt  of  his  mother,  of  her  hate,  of  her  oath  of  ven 
geance.  That  portrait  was  in  the  possession  of  my 
wife's  aunt.  Can  you  not  see,  man,  can  you  not 
understand?  The  boy,  how  can  we  find  him?  I 
cannot  wait — " 

"You  will  lie  down  and  be  quiet,"  said  Mc- 
Glennon.  His  tone  was  firm,  his  manner  deter 
mined.  "You  are  not  in  a  fit  condition  to  think, 
much  less  to  act.  You  are  ill,  man,  and  no 
wonder.  Rest,  and  I  will  go  for  a  hot  soup,  and  a 
drink  of  brandy.  You  need  nourishment  and 
quiet.  After  you  have  eaten  and  slept,  we  will  talk 
of  what  can  be  done  to  find  the  boy." 

270 


TITO 

McGIennon  was  about  to  go  when  Doctor 
Remo  entered. 

The  doctor  approached  Vanburg,  who  was  sit 
ting  beside  the  bed.  "Well,"  he  said,  "you  are 
not  so  seriously  injured  as  I  feared.  You  must 
have  a  constitution  of  iron." 

Laying  a  finger  on  Vanburg's  pulse  he  looked 
at  him  with  concern. 

"Why,  man,  you  should  be  in  bed.  Your  pulse 
is  of  race-horse  speed." 

"No,  no,"  answered  Vanburg,  impatiently,  "you 
can  do  me  no  good." 

"He  is  excited  over  the  disappearance  of  the 
boy,"  said  McGIennon. 

"Mac,  if  I  were  only  in  Florence,  where  I  could 
find  the  old  woman,  Mother  Malenotti!  I  can't 
sit  idly  here !" 

"Florence !  Mother  Malenotti !"  repeated  Doc 
tor  Remo.  "Did  you  ever  live  in  Florence?"  he 
asked  of  Vanburg. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  tersely. 

"And  you  knew  a  Mother  Malenotti — a  mid 
wife?" 

"Yes.  What  do  you  know  of  her?  Tell  me! 
Quick,  man!" 

Vanburg's  tone  was  violent.  He  was  about  to 
rise,  but  McGIennon  laid  a  restraining  hand  upon 
his  shoulder. 

"It  is  as  I  thought — as  I  feared,"  the  doctor  re 
plied,  musingly.  Then  in  a  louder  tone:  "Were 
— were  vou  related  to  Mother  Malenotti  ?" 


271 


TITO 

"Her  niece  was  my  wife." 

The  doctor  rose  quickly  and  stood  staring  at 
Vanburg.  He  laid  a  trembling  hand  on  the  back 
of  a  chair.  His  voice  was  husky  and  almost  in 
audible.  "It  was  I,"  he  faltered,  "who  attended 
your  wife  when  her  child  was  born !" 

With  cat-like  spring  Vanburg  freed  himself 
from  McGlennon's  restraining  hand. 

"Answer  me  one  question — did  the  child  live?" 

"Yes,"  came  the  answer,  scarcely  audible. 
"And  you—" 

McGlennon's  arms  wound  about  Vanburg,  forc 
ing  him  back  to  the  bed  where  he  sat  beside  him. 

Doctor  Remo  told  what  he  knew.  He  laid 
bare  his  own  duplicity,  nor  did  he  try  to  excuse 
himself  for  the  part  he  had  taken  in  the  decep 
tion.  Again  and  again  Vanburg  sought  to 
wrench  himself  free  from  McGlennon's  grasp,  but 
the  powerful  Scotchman  held  him  close,  and  ex 
cept  by  an  occasional  groan,  Vanburg  did  not 
interrupt  the  recital,  as  the  doctor  continued  in  a 
subdued,  even  monotone.  Had  it  not  been  for 
McGlennon,  Vanburg,  in  his  state  of  semi-mad 
ness,  might  have  strangled  the  Italian  where  he 
stood,  but  the  powerful  arms  were  about  him  until 
he  could  neither  move  nor  speak. 

"I  realized,"  concluded  the  physician,  "the 
wrong  that  I  had  done  you,  but  it  was  a  question 
of  complying  with  the.  demand  of  Mother  Male- 
notti  or  surrendering  my  liberty.  She  had  me  in 
her  power.  There  had  been  an  accidental  death. 


272 


TITO 

Though  without  intent  I  was  at  fault.  One  word 
from  her  and  I  was  ruined.  I  was  forced  to  agree 
to  her  terms  and  report  to  you  that  the  child  was 
born  dead.  This  was  done  because  from  the  first 
there  was  no  possibility  of  saving  the  life  of  the 
mother.  I  left  Florence  the  following  year,  and 
know  only  that  at  the  time  of  my  departure  the 
child  was  living  in  the  country  with  Mother  Male- 
notti." 

"And  you  know  nothing  further  of  the  boy  or 
the  old  woman  ?"  said  McGlennon. 

"Nothing,"  was  the  answer. 

"Go!"  said  McGlennon,  "go!  do  not  come 
again." 

Silently  the  Italian  turned  to  go.  At  the  door 
he  paused.  "I  have  offered  no  excuse,"  he  said 
in  the  same  low  tone.  "I  realize  the  enormity  of 
the  wrong  to  the  father.  I  carried  out  the  old 
woman's  will — it  was  that  or  disgrace." 

He  wentput  and  his  step  echoed  on  the  stair. 

"Well,"  said  the  Scotchman,  releasing  Vanburg, 
"that's  bad  news  and  good  news,  more  good  than 
bad.  Kent,  you're  weak  and  excited  and  God 
knows  you  have  reason  to  be.  Were  you  a  well 
man,  in  a  fair  fight,  I'll  allow  you  could  lay  me  on 
my  back;  but  to-night  you  will  do  as  I  say. 
You're  going  to  bed  while  I  fetch  you  a  hot  soup. 
You  have  a  son !  I  believe  him  to  be  the  boy, 
Tito.  Eh,  Gad!  That's  good  news  enough  for 
one  night." 

Vanburg  did  not  reply,  and  before  McGlennon's 

273 


TITO 

return  the  sleep  of  exhaustion  had  blotted  out  the 
events  of  the  day.  Throughout  the  night  the 
Scotchman  sat  beside  the  bed,  watching  the  white 
face  on  the  pillow,  the  muscles  twitching  as  if  in 
pain,  the  fevered  brain  of  the  sleeper  traveling 
back  through  the  years,  while  his  lips  formed  the 
words,  "Tito,  Bettina." 


274 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

WHEN  Tito  had  left  Vanburg's  room,  on 
reaching  the  street  he  turned  uptown,  and 
went  on  blindly,  not  caring  where.  One 
desire  moved  him — to  get  away,  as  far  away,  and 
as  quickly,  as  he  could : — anywhere  that  he  might 
escape  from  his  old  passion,  from  the  desire  for 
revenge,  and  the  fear  that  hate  would  again  obtain 
the  mastery.  Mile  after  mile  he  put  between  him 
and  the  room  where  lay  his  father — the  father 
whom  he  had  sought,  from  whom  he  now  fled  to 
escape  from  the  possibility  of  the  crime,  the 
thought  of  which  filled  him  with  horror. 

Night  was  coming  on  quickly,  banks  of  threat 
ening  clouds  closed  in  over  the  city,  and  when  he 
had  left  behind  him  the  last  straggling  lights,  it 
was  so  dark  that  he  could  scarcely  see  as  he  stum 
bled  blindly  on.  The  wind  moaned  ominously, 
and  after  he  had  reached  the  country,  the  trees  that 
bordered  the  road  sobbed,  as  fitful  gusts  of  wind 
tore  the  leaves  and  the  branches,  and  mutterings 
of  thunder  told  the  early  breaking  of  the  tempest. 

He  could  tell  by  the  soughing  of  the  wind 
through  the  branches,  and  the  blackness  that 
seemed  to  close  in  upon  him,  that  he  was  passing 
along  a  wooded  road.  A  flash  of  lightning  threw 
a  halo  of  blue  flame  across  his  way,  and  he  turned 

275 


TITO 

abruptly  into  a  cart  path  winding  under  the  over 
hanging  boughs.  Having  eaten  nothing  since 
morning  he  was  weak,  tired  and  hungry,  but  it  was 
his  desire  to  rest  in  the  solitude  and  seclusion  of 
the  wood  that  prompted  him  to  turn  from  the  road. 

Weary,  footsore,  he  threw  himself  at  full  length 
upon  the  soft  grass  and  leaves,  while  the  thunder 
rumbled  over  his  head,  and  the  flashes  of  lightning 
peopled  the  wood  with  unearthly  forms,  and  from 
brush  and  tree,  ghastly  faces,  with  staring  eyes, 
peered  upon  the  shuddering  figure  on  the  ground; 
then  blackness  again  shut  out  the  awful  sight. 
The  rain  began  pattering  on  the  leaves  over  his 
head,  the  wind  sang  a  requiem  through  the 
branches,  and  a  chorus  as  of  a  thousand  lost  souls 
chanted  a  response.  Again  the  thunder  pealed, 
discordant,  threatening,  until  it  seemed  the  uni 
verse  was  disrupted — tumbling  in  fragments  above 
his  head,  falling,  to  crush  him,  only  to  slink  away 
with  growls  and  mutterings,  then  another  flash 
and  tongue  of  flame  would  disclose  in  bush  and 
tree  an  army  of  grinning,  uncanny  dead: — on 
each  quivering  leaf  a  blotch  of  crimson  blood. 
Closing  his  eyes  to  shut  out  the  sight  he  lay  quite 
still,  and  the  rain,  falling  on  his  face,  cooled  his 
temples,  his  fevered  brain — the  mad  throbbing 
ceased  and  again  he  could  think. 

The  minutes  went  by,  the  rain  increased  until 
it  became  a  steady  downpour,  wetting  him  to  the 
skin ;  but  he  was  unconscious  of  all  but  the  sound 
of  voices  that  seemed  to  cry  over  his  head,  wailing, 
lamenting : 

276 


TITO 

"Tito,  thou  hast  forgotten,  thou  art  a  coward,  a 
coward,  a  coward !" 

How  they  scoffed  at  him,  upbraiding,  taunting 
him,  mourning  for  the  vow  he  had  broken,  while 
the  wind  sobbed  and,  in  the  flashes  of  light,  sight 
less  eyes  wept,  their  tears  mingling  with  the  down- 
pouring  rain  that  washed  all  but  the  crimson  stain 
from  the  leaves.  Again  the  thunder  roared  and, 
following  the  army  of  echoes  that  rolled  away, 
came  the  scornful,  maddening  laugh  of  the  old 
woman,  but  it  was  a  sound  to  chill  the  blood,  vin 
dictive,  reproachful,  her  words  sighing  through 
the  moaning  branches.  "Remember  thy  promise, 
my  Tito,  or  thy  soul  will  be  damned.  It  is  not  too 
late ;  it  is  not,  it  is  not.  Thou  shalt  be  pointed  at 
as  a  coward,  a  coward.  'Tis  the  dirty  blood  of  thy 
father  that  falters.  Go  back,  it  is  not  too  late." 

The  wind  shrieked  the  voice  into  silence  and  the 
rain  kept  up  its  pattering  song. 

"Ah,  God!"  muttered  the  boy,  "Thou  hast  in 
deed  deserted  me.  Why  shouldst  Thou  have 
taught  me  what  love  was,  why  could  not  I  have 
hated  him,  then  I  should  not  have  faltered.  Now 
I  must  run  away — like  a  coward.  I  must  never  see 
him  again,  and  through  all  the  years  and  the  years 
I  shall  remember  him,  not  he  who  wronged  me, 
but  as  I  found  him,  alone,  with  the  tears  of  glad 
ness  in  his  eyes.  And  when  I  am  a  man  and  try 
to  forget  the  father  whom  I  should  hate,  I  shall 
feel  the  touch  of  his  lips  on  my  forehead;  feel 
my  fingers  tremble  with  the  joy  of  his  touch, 
and  his  words  will  haunt  me  through  the  days  and 

277 


TITO 

the  years — 'Tito,  boy,  I  am  glad  you  have  come 
back  to  me.' ' 

His  voice  choked  and  the  tears  ran  down  his 
rain-drenched  face. 

"My  mother,"  he  faltered,  "thou  wilt  not  blame 
me.  No  fault  could  have  been  thine,  and  I  know 
that  thou  didst  love  him.  If  the  wrong  was  his, 
ihou  wouldst  forgive  him,  and  I,  whom  he 
wronged  as  he  wronged  thee,  can  I  not  forget  or 
forgive  ?  Again  will  I  go  back  to  dear  Italia,  there 
will  I  be  safe  from  the  fear  that  the  old  hate  will 
return.  Never  again  shall  I  see  him,  never  again 
shall  I  hear  his  voice,  and  he  shall  never  know  that 
Tito,  his  son,  forgot  the  vow  that  he  made.  To 
morrow  shall  I  seek  the  good  friend  who  offered 
me  money  that  I  might  learn  to  sing.  Sing! 
Never  can  I  sing  again,  for  to-night  the  voice 
within  me  died.  Yet  I  must,  even  though  my 
heart  burst.  Sing  I  will,  for  the  money  to  take 
me  away,  to  Italia,  and  when  I  am  there,  will  he 
be  safe,  and  I — I  shall  die  of  shame !" 

His  head  fell  on  his  arm  and  his  eyes  closed. 
He  slept. 

The  morning  sun  was  hours  high  when  he 
awoke,  cold,  benumbed,  with  a  feeling  that  some 
terrible  disaster  had  overtaken  him.  There  was 
joy  in  the  fresh  air,  the  sunshine  quivered  through 
the  branches  of  the  trees,  kissing  the  water  on  the 
dripping  leaves  into  sparkling  gems.  He  was  stiff 
and  scarcely  able  to  move,  but  he  walked  into  the 
warm  sunshine,  his  wet  clothing  clinging  to  his 
body,  his  teeth  chattering  with  the  cold. 

278 


TITO 

To  return  to  Italy  was  his  one  thought.  The 
one  desire  to  get  away,  to  preclude  any  possibility 
of  again  meeting  his  father  took  possession  of  his 
mind,  and  with  this  end  in  view,  he  decided  to 
return  to  the  city.  Entertaining  no  doubt  as  to 
his  ability  to  accomplish  his  purpose,  his  confi 
dence  in  his  ultimate  success  was  complete;  his 
brain  was  clear,  and  his  plan  of  action  well  defined. 
Having  eaten  nothing  for  the  past  twenty-four 
hours,  he  was  weak  from  lack  of  food  and  expos 
ure,  but  hunger  had  no  terrors  for  him — often  had 
he  done  battle  with  it  before.  At  the  cafes  in  the 
Italian  quarter  a  welcome  always  awaited  him,  for 
he  had  sung  himself  into  the  hearts  of  his  com 
patriots,  and  his  sigh  of  satisfaction  was  in  re 
sponse  to  the  thought  that  there  he  would  be  met 
with  kind  words  and  smiles — coin  of  the  heart's 
mintage. 

Walking  with  rapid,  swinging  gait,  he  hoped  to 
arrive  at  the  home  of  Ned  Hollander  in  time  to 
see  him  before  he  left  for  his  office.  To  his  rain- 
soaked  clothing  he  gave  no  thought,  and  he  was 
unconscious  that  he  presented  a  sorry,  bedraggled 
appearance.  As  he  went  on,  the  noise  and  bustle 
of  the  city  was  as  a  greeting  from  an  old  friend, 
stirring  his  young  blood,  lifting  the  cloud  that 
seemed  to  envelop  him,  and  holding  out  something 
akin  to  hope. 

Ringing  the  bell,  the  servant  who  opened  the 
door  eyed  him  with  amused  suspicion,  then,  leav 
ing  Tito  standing  in  the  outer  hall,  went  in  search 
of  his  master. 

279 


TITO 

Tito  almost  smiled  at  his  own  audacity,  yet  he 
was  proudly  conscious  that  his  mission  was  not 
one  of  charity.  He  had  something  to  sell — the  art 
that  the  good  God  had  given  him,  and,  when  he 
was  bidden  to  enter,  met  Ned  Hollander's  smiling 
welcome  with  the  easy  grace  of  an  equal. 

"Ah,  Tito,  I  am  truly  glad  to  see  you.  A  mo 
ment  later  and  you  would  have  missed  me." 

Tito  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  own  forlorn 
figure  in  a  mirror,  and  the  blood  mounted  to  his 
cheeks,  for  his  anxiety  had  crowded  out  all 
thought  of  his  personal  appearance. 

"I  have  been  out,"  he  said  apologetically,  "in 
the  rain  of  last  night.  Thou  wilt  not  be  offended 
that  I  am  wet — "  he  cast  a  look  of  concern  at  his 
mud-besmeared  clothes  and  boots — "and  muddy? 
But  I  wished  much  to  see  thee.  Thou  wilt  not 
mind  that  I  look  ill?" 

"Not  I,"  Ned  laughed.  "How  comes  it  that  you 
were  out  in  the  rain?" 

"That  I  cannot  tell  thee,"  Tito  replied.  "It  was 
nothing,  only  that  I  look  like  a  sweep.  What  I 
would  know  is,  if  thou  wouldst  have  me  sing — 
sing  for  thy  friends  ?  I  must  tell  thee  that  I  would 
go  to  Italia — to  my  home ;  and  I  must  earn  money, 
for  I  would  go  soon.  Thou  wert  kind  to  offer  me 
money  that  I  might  learn ;  wilt  thou  be  kind  now, 
and,  at  thy  club,  for  thy  friends,  will  I  sing.  They 
are  rich,  and  if  I  sing  well,  will  they  pay  me — that 
I  may  go  to  Italia." 

"My  dear  boy,  of  course  I'll  help  you,"  was  the 

280 


TITO 

impulsive  response.  "If  ^ou  are  in  trouble  I  will 
give  you — " 

"No,  no,"  interrupted  Tito,  stoutly,  "that  I  will 
not ;  but  I  will  earn  it,  aye,  and  I  will  sing  as  never 
before, — and  never  again,"  he  added  in  a  faltering 
voice. 

"To-night,  then,  at  the  club.  You  will  come 
here,  come  early,  and  to  Italy  you  shall  go.  Now 
isn't  there  something  I  can  do  for  you  to-day?" 

"Nothing,"  replied  Tito.  "You  are  kind.  I 
will  go,  and  to-morrow — could  I  get  a  ship  to 
morrow?" 

"Yes,  there  is  a  boat  for  Mediterranean  ports 
to-morrow.  But  why  so  soon,  Tito?" 

"Ah!  that  I  cannot  tell  thee,  but  when  I  shall 
have  money  to  pay  for  the  passage,  then  shall  I  go. 
If  it  were  only  to-day!" 

His  voice  and  his  eyes  spoke  of  sorrow  that  his 
listener  was  quick  to  perceive.  With  a  parting 
good-bye,  Tito  ran  lightly  down  the  steps  and  was 
gone. 

Attired  in  a  neat  fitting  suit  of  clothes,  which 
had  been  provided  by  Ned  Hollander,  who,  with 
delicate  tact,  had  pointed  out  to  Tito  that  his  own 
was  hardly  appropriate  for  the  occasion,  in  the 
early  evening  he  entered  the  club-house  with  his 
benefactor. 

Here  were  his  father's  one-time  friends;  here, 
too,  was  where  this  same  father  was  wont  to  come, 
the  equal  of  any,  the  mental  superior  of  many  an 
other  who  had  forgotten  that  he  still  lived — here 

281 


TITO 

now  walked  his  son  with  the  unconscious  bearing 
of  one  to  the  manner  born. 

Many  questioning  eyes  were  turned  upon  him, 
many  were  the  admiring  glances  that  followed 
him,  as,  with  his  sponsor,  he  walked  from  room  to 
room,  receiving  the  same  formal  introduction,  the 
same  courtesy  that  would  be  extended  to  an  hon 
ored  guest.  Many  were  the  eyes  that  rested  on 
the  handsome  face,  to  which  excitement  had  lent  a 
ready  flush,  which  had  power  only  to  soften  the 
expression  of  sorrow,  to  veil  the  look  of  sadness 
in  the  eyes,  giving  to  him  a  subdued,  even  melan 
choly  air,  an  added  distinction  to  Nature's  mould 
of  an  aristocrat.  With  an  ease  of  manner  that  was 
inborn,  he  met  those  who  were  old  in  the  world's 
knowledge,  fitting  into  his  environment  as  if  lux 
ury  had  been  his  by  right ;  observing  much,  saying 
little,  but  conquering  the  hearts  of  those  who  saw 
him  and  marveled. 

Entering  the  library  with  his  companion,  they 
stood  before  the  portraits  of  the  past  members  of 
the  club,  Hollander  answering  his  questions,  point 
ing  out  to  him,  meanwhile,  those  of  whom  the 
world  had  heard  much. 

Tito  listened,  silent,  for  his  eyes  were  fixed  in 
an  incredulous  stare  upon  Vanburg's  portrait,  one 
of  a  group  in  a  frame  containing  twenty  or  more 
of  the  former  members  of  the  club. 

"Whose — whose  picture  is  that?"  he  asked,  indi 
cating  his  father's  portrait. 

His  voice  was  unsteady,  but  he  spoke  in  a  low 
tone. 

282 


TITO 

"His  name  is  Vanburg,"  Ned  replied. 

"He— he  is  living?"  Tito  asked. 

"Yes,  I  believe  he  is.  He  has  not  been  here  for 
many  years.  Poor  fellow,  poor  Van." 

'Thou  knew  him  well?  Was  there  some  mis 
fortune?  Thou  speakest  of  him  with  pity." 

"Yes.  His  life  was  blotted  out.  You  could  not 
understand,  Tito." 

"Tell  me  of  him." 

The  boy's  tone  was  one  of  entreaty.  In  his  eyes 
there;  was  supplication,  and  in  the  excitement  of 
the  moment  his  unguarded  desire  was  made  mani 
fest  to  his  companion.  Ned  regarded  him  with 
amused  interest.  He  considered  the  request  that 
of  one  whose  emotional  instincts  had  been  awak 
ened  by  his  recital  of  Vanburg's  downfall ;  and  in 
a  few  words  he  told  the  history  of  the  boy's  father. 
Tito  listened,  his  color,  in  waves,  coming  and  go 
ing,  his  breathing  deep,  his  eyes  responding  to 
every  detail — grief,  regret,  humiliation,  alternately 
sweeping  over  his  mobile  countenance. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed  in  tones  of  sorrow,  "there 
must  have  been  some  cause,  some  trouble.  Was — 
was  he  married?"  he  asked  tremulously. 

"No,"  answered  his  companion.  A  convulsive 
shudder  swept  the  boy's  frame.  His  features  hard 
ened,  and  turning  abruptly  away  he  asked : 

"Wilt  thou  have  me  sing  now?" 

"Are  you  anxious  to  conquer,  to  triumph?" 
asked  Hollander,  laughing. 

"No,  but  if  I  delay,  I  fear  that  I  shall  fail.  Let 
it  be  now!" 

283 


TITO 

The  voice  was  steely,  the  lines  about  the  mouth 
were  drawn,  and  the  eyes  told  of  mental  suffering. 

He  stood  beside  the  piano,  and  a  few  introduc 
tory  notes  drew  the  attention  of  all  to  the  singer, 
for  it  was  known  that  Hollander  had  made  a  prom 
ise  which  required  talent  of  a  high  order  to  redeem. 

The  power  that  had  swayed  the  emotional  Flor 
entine  artists,  that  had  stirred  the  hearts  of  Ned 
Hollander  and  his  sister  with  a  new-found  delight, 
that  had  brought  tears  into  the  eyes  of  Vanburg — 
tears  of  regret,  of  love,  of  sorrow — this  power 
seized  upon  those  who  listened  to  the  voice  that 
was  now  tender,  now  passionate, — tones  vibrating 
with  love,  with  hate,  sinking  to  a  sigh  or  rising 
with  the  wild  abandon  of  one  who  flings  defiance 
to  the  world.  In  spirit,  the  singer  was  alone — 
alone  in  the  fields  and  woods  of  Tuscany;  the  rip 
pling  notes  of  the  piano,  subdued,  but  ever  sup 
porting  the  voice,  was  the  echo  of  the  Arno 
through  the  sunlit  summer  days,  and  the  evenings, 
with  the  purple  Apennines  touching  the  sky  that 
was  the  dome  of  his  world,  his  heaven.  The  story 
he  was  telling  in  song  was  of  the  heart-burnings 
of  his  childhood,  of  his  sorrowful  quest,  of  the 
father  he  had  found  to  love — to  lose.  He  did  not 
see  the  faces  before  him,  the  soft  lights  were  the 
reflection  of  the  sun  sinking  in  a  blaze  behind  the 
mountain  peaks  of  his  own  Tuscany,  melting  into 
a  haze  of  iridescent  color  as  the  ready  tears  filled 
his  eyes.  He  did  not  hear  the  applause,  the  words 
of  praise  fell  upon  his  ears  a  buzzing  sound — 
vague,  meaningless. 

284 


TITO 

Again  and  again  he  sang,  but  his  heart  was  with 
the  unconscious  sleeper  whom  he  had  left  so  short 
a  time  before,  though  now  it  seemed  ages,  his  life 
separated  from  the  past  by  a  limitless  gulf. 

He  was  singing,  he  believed,  his  last  song,  for 
the  last  time,  the  one  to  which  Vanburg  had  lis 
tened,  the  one  which  Bettina  had  loved,  had  sung. 
With  an  effort  he  had  controlled  his  voice,  but  it 
wavered,  faltered,  and  the  last  lingering  note  ended 
in  a  sob, — the  tears  streaming  down  his  cheeks. 
He  turned  away  to  hide  his  emotion,  but  there 
were  other  eyes  than  his  that  were  moist,  other  lips 
that  quivered,  other  hearts  that  had  responded  to 
the  pathetic  appeal.  It  was  no  time  for  applause ; 
a  sigh,  almost  of  relief,  swept  his  hearers,  and  the 
tribute  to  his  art  was  deeper  than  words  could 
voice. 

"Let  me  go  now,"  he  begged. 

"Come  with  me  into  the  cafe,"  urged  Hollander 
gently. 

Together  they  entered  the  cafe  and  Ned,  divin 
ing  Tito's  desire,  led  him  to  a  retired  seat. 

Placing  a  glass  of  wine  before  him,  he  bade  him 
drink  and  rest  until  he  should  return. 

Tito  drank  the  wine,  and  to  those  who  spoke  to 
him — gently,  affectionately,  he  answered  with  smil 
ing  face  but  sorrowing  eyes;  and  with  Hollander's 
return  he  prepared  to  go. 

A  sealed  envelope  was  placed  in  his  hands,  with 
the  request  that  it  should  not  be  opened  until  he 
returned  to  his  lodgings. 

285 


TITO 

"My  address  is  within  the  envelope,"  he  was 
told,  "you  will  write  to  me?" 

"Yes,"  Tito  answered,  "thou  hast  been  very 
good  to  me.  I  will  not  forget." 

"Good  luck  to  you !  God  has  been  good  to  you, 
my  boy;  with  your  voice,  you  can  command  the 
world." 

"When  I  am  in  dear  Tuscany  by  the  Arno,  I 
shall  never  care  to  sing  again." 

He  went  out  into  the  night  and  the  city  sang  to 
him  its  never  ending  song. 


286 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

FROM  the  promenade  deck  of  an  ocean 
steamer,  Tito  watched  the  receding  shores  of 
America,  as  they  melted  into  a  haze  on  the 
horizon — his  eyes,  dreamy,  wistful,  lingered  where 
the  city  faded  from  his  sight.  He  caught  his  breath 
sharply,  and  a  sigh  of  regret  was  borne  back,  a 
last  message  of  sorrowing  love.  He  could  not  steel 
his  heart  against  the  sorrow  he  felt  at  leaving — 
feelings  that  rilled  him  with  a  profound  melan 
choly,  crying  to  him  that  all  hope  in  life  was  left 
behind. 

Too  late  to  return  now  and  answer  the  prompt 
ings  of  the  years  of  hate  he  had  outlived,  too  late 
to  fulfil  the  vow  he  had  made  and  broken,  too  late 
to  avert  the  scorn,  the  shame,  the  degradation 
which  awaited  him  on  his  return. 

He  shuddered.  He  pictured  the  dark  visaged, 
relentless  Pietro,  his  eyes  shooting  gleams  of  hate, 
as  he  demanded  of  him  if  he  had  kept  his  vow.  He 
could  see  the  low,  contracted  forehead,  the  ugly 
scar  on  the  cheek,  the  thin,  compressed  lips,  the 
almost  beardless  face,  the  set,  murderous  expres 
sion,  which,  in  the  years  he  had  known  him,  had 
never  relaxed,  nor,  in  that  time,  had  a  smile  ever 
softened  its  lines.  Stamped  on  the  boy's  mind  was 
the  awful  expression,  the  lips  scarcely  moving  as, 

287 


TITO 

at  parting,  he  hissed  into  his  ear  a  warning  never 
to  receive  his  first  communion  till  he  had  wrought 
the  vengeance  that  was  his  by  right,  by  the  will  of 
God.  "See!"  the  old  man  cried,  pointing  to  the 
scar  that  disfigured  his  face,  "this  was  the  mark 
of  one  whose  life  I  swore  should  be  the  balm  to 
heal  it.  Years  I  sought  him,  till,  at  last,  my  knife 
found  his  heart.  Only  then  did  the  scar  heal.  Thy 
wrong  was  greater  than  mine." 

A  chill  seemed  to  creep  over  the  boy,  clutching 
at  his  heart ; — a  sensation  of  horror  to  take  posses 
sion  of  him.  This,  in  turn,  gave  place  to  compas 
sion,  an  indefinable  regret,  and  try  as  he  wrould, 
he  could  not  stifle  emotions  which,  unbidden,  filled 
him  with  a  keen  sorrow,  nor  could  he  banish  from 
his  mind  the  one  with  whom  he  had  parted  forever, 
whom  he  had  learned  to  love.  Like  a  spectre,  the 
face  haunted  him,  and  the  words  rang  in  his  ears, 
"Tito,  you  have  come  back  to  me." 

And  now,  now  he  was  returning  to  the  life  that 
he  should  never  have  left — to  the  taunts  and  the 
heart-burnings.  He  must  bear  the  dishonor  hum 
bly,  for  was  it  not  of  his  own  choosing?  and  hav 
ing  relinquished  his  right  to  demand  satisfaction, 
he  must  remain  silent,  for  he  had  surrendered  his 
claim  to  manhood.  Still  the  thought  came  to  him, 
and  it  thrilled  his  soul  with  a  new-found  joy,  that 
he  had  spared  the  life  he  had  sworn  to  take, — of 
that  his  defamcrs  could  not  rob  him.  And  his 
pulses  quickened,  for  the  thought  was  dear,  and  a 
wondrous  feeling  of  exaltation  took  possession  of 
him. 

288 


TITO 

The  land  had  disappeared  and  the  steamer  was 
lifting  to  the  ocean  swell.  Turning  from  the  rail 
of  the  ship  he  descended  to  the  saloon,  for  he  was 
a  first-caoin  passenger,  and,  to  direct  his  thoughts 
into  pleasanter  channels,  as  well  as  to  acquaint 
himself  with  the  luxurious  surroundings,  he  ex 
plored  the  steamer  from  its  upper  deck  to  as  far 
below  as  the  rules  would  permit. 

When,  the  night  before,  Tito  had  opened  the 
envelope  given  him  by  Ned  Hollander,  at  first  his 
amazement  had  given  place  to  doubt,  then  to  a 
feeling  of  guilt  that  he  had,  though  without  his 
sanction,  become  an  object  of  charity.  This  was 
revolting  to  him,  but  after  having  read,  by  a  labori 
ous  effort,  the  letter  enclosed,  his  over-sensitive 
feelings  were  soothed. 

The  envelope  contained  a  first-class  ticket  to 
Genoa,  and  a  sum  of  money  out  of  all  proportion, 
the  boy  believed,  to  what  should  have  been  his 
reward.  But  the  letter  written  by  Hollander  as 
suaged  the  boy's  pride,  and  the  following  day 
found  him  on  the  steamer  in  possession  of  funds 
sufficient  for  weeks,  even  months,  to  come. 

The  days  dragged  slowly ;  for  after  the  first  nov 
elty  had  passed,  his  interest  lagged,  and  even  the 
passengers  failed  to  awake  more  than  slight  notice, 
and  mental  observations  that  were  caustic  and 
sweeping  in  his  disregard  for  their  high-bred  as 
sumption  of  superiority.  Keenly  alive  to  what  was 
new  and  strange,  he  absorbed  knowledge  readily ; 
ever  on  the  alert,  unobtrusive,  observing,  reticent, 
a  boy  in  years,  with  the  wisdom  of  a  man. 

289 


TITO 

He  had  leisure  now  to  think,  and  during  the  still 
nights,  when  a  mysterious  calm  settled  over  the 
sea,  the  steamer  forging  ahead  over  the  watery 
waste,  the  voice  of  an  almighty  power  whispered 
its  secrets  to  him. 

When  all  was  quiet  below,  and  the  decks  were 
clear,  the  moonless  sky  above  him,  he  sat  alone  on 
the  upper  deck,  his  thoughts  with  the  father,  who, 
perhaps,  lay  unconscious,  perhaps  dying.  The 
tears  would  trickle  down  his  cheeks,  and  his  chok 
ing  sobs  were  a  tribute  to  his  great  love.  The 
look  in  Vanburg's  eyes — a  look  of  appeal,  entreaty, 
love,  haunted  him ;  and  the  voice  seemed  to  come 
from  the  sea.  "Tito,  my  own  Tito."  Why  had 
the  remembrance  the  power  to  wring  his  young 
heart,  why  were  the  wrords  ever  in  his  ears,  the 
tones  gentle  as  a  woman's,  while  the  tender,  com 
passionate  look  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  as  he  bent 
over  him  when  he  lay  on  the  bed  with  a  wounded 
arm,  tortured  him  with  a  sense  of  his  own  ingrati 
tude.  With  a  start  and  a  sudden  resolve  he  would 
spring  to  his  feet  as  though  to  turn  back,  to  throw 
himself  at  the  feet  of  the  father  who  had  wronged 
him  and  confess  all,  to  beg  forgiveness  for  the  vow 
he  had  made,  to  call  him  father,  to  see  his  eyes 
light  up  with  the  joy  that  his  words  would  bring, 
and  to  again  hear  him  cry  out,  "Tito,  you  have 
come  back  to  me." 

But  it  was  too  late.  Every  throb  of  the  screw 
bore  him  farther  away  from  him  who  was  waiting, 
always  waiting,  his  return.  He  was  alone  with 
the  night  and  the  sea,  and  the  waves  lapping  the 

290 


TITO 

sides  of  the  ship  sobbed  in  sympathy  with  his  grief, 
the  soft  night  wind  chiding  him  for  the  life  and  the 
love  he  had  cast  aside.  What  would  become  of 
this  new-found  father,  alone  in  that  dreary  room, 
no  human  being  near  who  had  the  power  to  save 
him  from  his  downward  career?  For  the  boy  had 
seen  enough  to  convince  him  that  his  father  was 
seeking  oblivion  in  drink.  How  could  it  be  that 
this  father  had  wronged  him,  he,  whose  voice, 
when  speaking  of  his  mother — the  dead  Bettina — 
shook  with  emotion?  Had  he  not,  when  he  lay 
unconscious,  and  listened  to  the  voice  that  he 
thought  was  hers,  awakened  ?  Had  not  her  name 
the  power  to  bring  him  to  life? 

Tito  pressed  his  hands  against  his  temples  and 
tried  to  think,  to  reason,  but  the  declaration  of 
Vanburg  that  he  had  no  son,  set  his  thoughts  and 
emotions  revolting.  Then  the  recollection  of  what 
awaited  him  on  his  return  rose  before  him,  the 
taunts,  the  gibes,  the  insults,  and  the  old  feelings 
of  hate  and  passion  swept  over  him.  The  old 
woman's  hateful  features  seemed  to  leer  at  him  in 
the  gloom,  he  saw  the  scarred,  vindictive  face  of 
Pietro,  and  he  heard  the  voices  of  the  night  in 
taunting  whispers:  "Coward,  Piccolo  d'Ignoti,  so 
you  have  come  back — nameless." 

It  was  the  night  before  the  steamer  arrived  at 
Genoa.  The  breeze  from  the  land  sighed  with 
languorous  warmth,  and  as  they  neared  the  en 
trance  to  the  outer  bay,  the  sea  murmured  a  greet 
ing. 

Tito  was  on  deck.  Throughout  the  voyage  he 
291 


TITO 

had  kept  much  to  himself,  repulsing  all  advances, 
refusing  to  enter  into  conversation  with  the  pas 
sengers  ;  and  they,  in  turn,  noting  his  disinclination 
to  talk,  after  the  first  few  days,  left  him  to  himself. 

"Italia,  dear  Italia,"  he  murmured  absently, 
"much  as  I  love  thee,  thou  hast  no  welcome  for  me 
— Tito.  Is  there  not  one  in  all  this  beautiful  land 
who  will  be  glad  to  see  the  'Little  Devil'  again? 
Aye,  Maria,  and  the  good  artist,  in  Florence;  he 
will  be  pleased,  yet  will  he  also  be  sorry,  for  he  will 
look  into  my  eyes  and  there  will  he  read  that  the 
heart  within  me  is  dead.  It  is  as  he  said, — that 
America  would  strangle  the  joy,  the  soul,  and 
when  I  would  return,  the  beauty  in  life  for  me 
would  be  gone.  It  is  even  so.  The  birds  will  sing, 
but  I  shall  not  hear  them;  the  flowers  will  be  as 
bright  as  when  I  left  them,  but  to  me  their  beauty 
will  be  withered.  The  river  will  babble  as  I  have 
often  heard  it,  but  it  will  be  a  song  of  sorrow. 
And  it  will  be  saying  to  me  always  the  words: 
"Tito,  come  back  to  me,  come  back  to  me.' ' 

"Why,  oh,  why  does  not  the  ship  come  to  the 
land,  that  I  may  get  away !  I  shall  like  better  the 
train  when  it  rushes  on  and  on.  The  ship  is  ever 
going,  going,  going,  and  always,  always  away  from 
him, — him  whom  I  shall  never  see  again.  Ma 
donna  Mia,  teach  me  what  God  is,  that  I  may 
speak  with  Him,  pray  to  Him !  Would  he  hear 
me,  me,  Tito,  the  'Little  Devil?'  Then  will  I  ask 
of  Him  this  favor — as  He  gave  back  the  life  of 
him  whom  I  call  father,  wilt  thou,  Madonna,  guard 
him,  save  him  ?  and  if  he  has  erred,  if  he  has  done 

292 


TITO 

wrong,  let  me  answer  for  it,  Madonna  Mia,  for  my 
sin  is  greater  than  his." 

The  lip  trembled  and  the  sturdy  frame  shook 
with  a  convulsive  sob,  yet  there  took  possession  of 
the  boy  a  feeling  of  peace,  of  calm,  a  sweet  con 
tentment  for,  in  his  heart,  hate  had  died,  and,  as 
if  a  great  light  had  entered  his  life,  there  came  to 
him  the  wonderful  experience  of  the  birth  of  faith, 
the  mystery  of  the  Divine  Being. 

An  elation  seemed  to  encompass  his  heart,  his 
soul ;  his  pulses  throbbed,  his  heartbeats  quickened, 
and  an  ecstasy,  as  though  some  unlooked-for  good 
fortune  had  overtaken  him,  thrilled  his  being. 

"The  good  Madonna  guard  him." 

He  whispered  the  words  again  and  again,  and  as 
if  in  answer  to  the  prayer,  as  if  the  telegraphy  of 
human  hearts  held  distance  as  naught,  more  than 
three  thousand  miles  away,  a  man,  lonely  and  sor 
rowful,  was  raising  his  heart  to  Heaven  in  the 
words:  "Be  merciful,  oh  God; — Tito,  come  back 
to  meP 


293 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

AGAIN  Tito  walked  through  the  streets  of 
Florence.  The  night  was  well  advanced 
when  he  arrived,  after  a  journey  from  Genoa 
that  was  a  torture  to  him.  Tired  and  hungry 
though  he  was,  he  had  no  inclination  to  eat,  and, 
walking  listlessly  along  the  street,  he  took  but 
slight  interest  in  what  was  going  on  about  him. 

Lights  flashed,  music  struck  upon  his  ear,  for 
Florence  was  alive  to  its  pleasures,  and  the  cafes 
and  promenades  were  filled  with  gaily  dressed 
throngs,  chatting,  laughing  in  the  manner  of  true 
Florentines.  But  all  this  jarred  upon  him  and 
fretted  his  nerves;  his  face  was  drawn,  his  step 
heavy,  and  he  went  on  listlessly. 

He  was  passing  by  the  place  where,  upon  his 
former  visit,  he  had  first  discovered  the  loss  of  his 
purse.  He  stopped  in  his  walk  and  a  smile  played 
about  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  Instinctively  he 
felt  for  his  money,  but  his  experience  in  the  past 
year  had  taught  him  much,  and  his  smile  resolved 
into  his  old-time  rippling  laugh. 

"It  is  here,"  he  said  softly,  "that  I  missed  my 
good  gold  pieces,  here  also  was  where  I  discovered 
that  I  was  hungry,  aye,  as  never  before.  Would  I 
not  like  to  meet  the  clod  who  stole  my  money? 

294 


TITO 

Aye,  that  I  would !  And  I  would  wreak  my  ven 
geance  upon  his  dolt  head !  Ah !  But  I  will  have 
no  such  good  luck!  He  is  in  the  fields  tending 
swine,  yet  he  is  happier  than  I — even  better  than  I, 
though  he  be  a  thief." 

Again  he  walked  on,  pausing  before  the  cafe 
where  he  had  first  met  his  artist  friend.  Again  the 
strains  of  music  came  through  door  and  window, 
and  he  listened  as  he  had  on  the  night  when  he  had 
sung  outside  on  the  pavement ;  yet  now,  how  dif 
ferent  !  His  step  was  heavy,  his  eyes  expression 
less,  his  bearing  that  of  one  who  had  suffered  a 
loss  that  left  his  future  hopeless.  Silently  he 
turned  away.  No  responsive  chord  in  his  heart 
answered  to  the  strains  of  music,  which  formerly 
had  the  power  to  set  the  blood  tingling  through 
his  veins,  his  pulses  to  quicken,  his  whole  being  to 
thrill  with  delight.  The  music  that  was  wont  to 
stir  him  to  the  very  depths  of  his  soul,  now  fell 
upon  his  ear  a  jargon  of  meaningless  sounds; 
more,  it  annoyed  him,  and  turning  abruptly  away, 
he  hurried  on  to  his  lodgings. 

The  next  morning  Tito  was  astir  early.  To 
make  a  pilgrimage  to  the  original  of  the  painting 
which  he  had  left  with  Vanburg,  and  to  visit  his 
friend  the  artist,  were  the  missions  that  detained 
him ;  when  this  was  accomplished,  it  was  his  inten 
tion  to  hurry  on  to  his  home  without  further  delay. 
Knowing  what  he  had  to  undergo  before  he  could 
again  renew  his  old  life,  he  wished  to  meet  his  old 
associates,  that  the  worst  might  be  over,  and  he 

295 


TITO 

could  then  begin  life  anew.  But  more  than  all  he 
dreaded  his  meeting  with  Pietro.  Night  and  day 
he  saw  before  him  the  fierce  scowl,  the  eyes  blaz 
ing  with  hate,  with  passion,  with  vindictiveness, 
the  old  man's  voice  hissing  the  words  between 
clenched  teeth :  "Thou  art  a  coward,  a  dishonor 
to  thy  race !"  and  the  boy  knew  that  he  could  give 
no  excuse,  could  utter  no  word  in  palliation  of  his 
failure,  only  such  as  would  disclose  his  love  for  the 
father.  That  he  had  failed,  that  he  returned  doubly 
dishonored  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  knew  of  his 
mission — this  would  stamp  him  a  coward;  but  to 
acknowledge  the  cause  of  relinquishing  his  vow, 
would  brand  him  as  worse  than  a  traitor.  Besides, 
knowing  as  he  did  the  spirit  of  the  Vendetta  which 
dominated  Pietro,  somehow  he  had  a  fear  lest  the 
old  man,  with  the  impulsive  ardor  of  his  race, 
would  take  upon  himself  the  accomplishment  of 
the  vengeance  which  he  had  renounced.  At  the 
thought  terror  seized  him.  What  if  Pietro  should 
fulfil  the  vow  that  he  had  forsworn? 

With  these  thoughts  in  his  mind,  Tito  was  pass 
ing  the  cathedral,  and  the  organ  music,  with  the 
chanting  of  the  choir,  arrested  his  steps.  Entering 
the  church,  he  knelt  in  a  pew  in  the  centre  aisle. 

The  organ  pealed  forth  the  Gloria  of  Mozart's 
Mass,  the  choir  sang  the  inspired  music  with  an 
exaltation  of  religious  fervor,  the  stately  magnifi 
cence  of  the  ritual  of  the  Roman  church,  in  har 
mony  with  the  sombre  vastness  of  the  grand  inter 
ior  and  the  softened  light,  lent  an  unearthly  halo 

296 


TITO 

to  the  moving  forms  on  the  altar.  The  service  pro 
ceeded,  it  was  High  Mass,  and  the  intoning  of  the 
priest  was  answered  by  responses  that  died  into  an 
echo. 

Still  the  boy  knelt  as  one  in  a  dream — entranced. 
His  body  was  of  earth,  but  his  soul  had  gone  out 
to  the  Unknown — groping  in  the  dark  at  the  por 
tals  of  the  kingdom  of  Faith.  He  tried  to  pray, 
but  his  faculties  were  benumbed,  his  mind  in  chaos, 
and  only  the  words  framed  themselves  in  his  brain, 
in  his  heart :  Madonna,  forgive  me  and  guard  his 
life.  Hear  me,  Madonna!  At  last  I  have  found 
God !" 

The  procession  on  the  altar  moved  on  to  the 
left  and  entered  the  vestry;  the  congregation 
slowly  filed  out  of  the  church,  the  music  died  into 
a  soft  tremolo,  the  last  note  vibrating  through  the 
vast  edifice — Tito  was  alone,  kneeling  in  a  state  of 
rapture,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  altar  at  the  far  end  of 
the  church. 

Was  it  imagination,  a  chimera  of  an  over 
wrought  brain,  or  did  a  mist  form  above  the  altar, 
gradually  increasing  until  silvery,  shimmering 
clouds  seemed  to  float,  to  move,  to  intermingle, 
the  colored  lights  through  the  stained  windows 
lending  fantastic  colors  that  played  upon  the  mov 
ing  mass,  iridescent,  scintillating? 

Still  he  knelt,  powerless  to  move,  his  eyes,  bulg 
ing  from  their  sockets,  fixed  on  the  altar. 

Gradually  the  moving  mass  became  still,  drifting 
in  a  cloud,  and  from  its  centre  appeared  what  at 

297 


TITO 

first  seemed  the  outlines  of  a  human  form.  The 
mist  thickened,  gathered  at  the  centre,  and  a  face 
of  such  beauty  as  he  had  never  seen  shone  from 
out  the  encompassing  cloud,  the  lips  parting  in  a 
smile  as  if  about  to  speak.  Soon  the  full  figure 
was  outlined  in  the  hazy  mist — a  hand  of  marvel 
ous  whiteness  and  beauty  pointing  above. 

For  a  minute  the  vision  was  poised  in  the  vapor 
ous  cloud,  then  melted  before  his  eyes,  the  mist 
dissolved  and  nothing  remained  but  the  sunlight 
struggling  through  the  windows. 

He  rose,  bewildered,  but  a  feeling  of  quiet  peace 
had  taken  possession  of  his  heart  and  mind ;  and  as 
he  slowly  went  out  into  the  bright  sunlight,  he  felt 
that  some  rare  good  fortune  had  suddenly  come  to 
him.  Going  directly  to  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  he 
sought  the  portrait  of  Lippi's  Madonna,  and, 
standing  before  the  famous  painting,  again  looked 
upon  what  had.  been  the  model  his  mother  had 
used,  before  which  his  father  had  stood  when  they 
had  signed  the  portrait. 

"Ah !  my  mother,"  he  said,  softly,  "couldst  thou 
speak  to  me  to-day,  wouldst  thou  not  say  that  I 
had  done  right?  Thou  wouldst  not  blame  me  be 
cause  I  spared  the  life  of  him  whom  thou  loved? 
Thou  wouldst  not  have  me  bear  the  curse,  had  I 
wrought  the  vengeance  I  had  sworn?  Thou  who 
wert  so  beautiful,  so  good?  I  know  thou  wouldst 
not,  my  dear  mother;  and  when  to-day  I  prayed 
to  the  good  God  to  preserve  him,  I  felt  that  thou, 
too,  joined  with  me.  It  was  thou,  my  mother,  who 


TITO 

came  to  me  in  the  church,  and  thou  smiled,  for 
thou  wert  pleased,  and,  couldst  thou  speak,  well  I 
know  wouldst  thou  say:  'Tito,  thou  hast  done 
right ;  henceforth  will  the  good  God  be  near  thee.' 
Now  will  I  go  to  the  fields  and  work,  and  none 
shall  know,  and  he  will  live  in  peace,  this  father, 
even  though  he  will  not  call  me  son." 

Sorrowfully  he  turned  away  and  was  about  to 
go  out  through  the  main  entrance  when,  in  de 
scending  the  steps,  he  was  grasped  by  the  arm, 
and  his  artist  friend,  holding  him  close,  warmly 
embraced  him. 

"Tito!" 

Holding  the  boy  at  arm's  length,  he  looked  at 
him  searchingly. 

"Yes,  it  is  I,  Tito,"  was  the  reply. 

"It  is  Tito  in  the  flesh ;  'Little  Devil,'  it  is  as  I 
feared!  America  has  killed  the  soul  within  thee. 
The  fire  in  thine  eyes  is  dead.  Fanciullo  Mio,  why 
didst  thou  ever  go  ?  Come,  this  is  no  place  to  talk. 
We  will  go  to  the  cafe,  and  thou  shalt  tell  me  what 
I  already  know — that  the  heart  within  thee  is 
dead." 

Together  they  went  to  the  cafe  where,  once 
before,  in  the  bright  sunshine,  the  artist  had  lis 
tened  as  the  boy  poured  out  the  fulness  of  his 
young  heart.  Words  were  not  necessary  now  to 
tell  the  boy's  companion  that,  for  him,  the  future 
offered  nothing  on  which  hope  could  live.  The 
eyes,  the  voice,  the  features,  spoke  of  sorrow  that 
struck  into  his  very  soul,  and  with  the  instinct  of 


299 


TITO 

his  craft,  the  artist  read  the  story  of  a  life  blighted 
at  the  outset.  The  smile  was  gone,  the  fire  in  the 
eyes,  which  a  year  ago  had  power  to  rouse  the 
artist  instinct  in  his  companion,  was  extinguished. 
Nothing  remained  but  the  settled  calm  of  one  who 
had  surrendered  to  the  edict  of  the  world's  curse. 

"  'Little  Devil/  "  said  the  artist,  after  they  had 
drunk  a  glass  of  wine,  "is  it  not  as  I  have  said? 
Thou  hast  come  back  to  thine  own  Italia,  but  the 
sunlight  has  gone  out  of  thy  life ;  and  to  thee  the 
beauty  of  the  world  is  gone,  for  thou  no  longer 
livest.  America  has  strangled  thy  young  life,  so 
young,  of  such  promise !  Madonna,  that  it  should 
be  so!  Tell  me,  thy  father — " 

"He  lives,"  said  the  boy  simply. 

"Then  is  the  Madonna  kind!  Thou  hast  seen 
him?" 

"Yes." 

In  simple  language,  in  tones  that  were  an  echo 
of  the  Tito  of  the  Arno,  the  boy  told  his  story,  all 
that  had  occurred  since  he  had  last  parted  with  his 
friend.  The  sorrow  in  his  voice,  more  eloquent 
than  his  words,  betrayed  his  depth  of  feeling. 
Calmly,  dispassionately,  he  spoke  of  his  father,  yet, 
unconsciously  a  note  of  pride,  even  of  joy,  dis 
closed  to  his  listener  more  than  he  intended,  and 
a  feeling  of  confident  hope  filled  the  heart  of  the 
artist.  The  man  who  listened  with  eager  ear, 
trained  to  measure  men  by  the  varying  intonations 
of  the  voice,  as  well  as  by  a  judging  eye,  caught 
the  occasional  vibrant  note  of  affection  and,  with 


300 


TITO 

exultation,  awaited  the  termination  of  Tito's  story. 
In  the  germ  of  love  that  had  taken  root  in  the 
boy's  heart  he  saw  the  working  out  of  his  salva 
tion,  and  listened,  without  interruption,  to  the  end. 

"And  now,"  concluded  Tito,  "nothing  is  left  but 
the  old  life  of  shame.  I  return  as  I  went  away — 
nameless.  That  I  have  a  father,  yes,  but  one  who 
says  he  has  no  son;  so  again  must  I  meet  the 
taunts;  but  I  cannot  beat  them  as  I  did,  for  they 
have  the  right  to  call  me  coward.  I  shall  go  into 
the  fields  and  work,  and  forget." 

The  artist  smiled. 

"Tito,  'Little  Devil,'  the  good  Madonna  has 
guarded  thee.  When  I  first  saw  thee  at  the  church 
door,  I  feared  thou  hadst  returned  with  the  curse 
of  blood  upon  thy  hands.  If  I  loved  thee  before, 
now  thou  art,  in  truth,  my  son.  Thou  shalt  yet 
study  art  with  me,  for  the  heart  within  thee  is  not 
dead,  this  father — " 

"No,  no,"  replied  Tito,  the  first  sign  of  anima 
tion  in  voice  and  manner,  "no.  This  father  is  noth 
ing  to  me.  Have  I  not  told  thee  that  he  said  he 
has  no  son?" 

Again  the  artist  smiled.  Time,  he  knew,  and  the 
wondrous  workings  of  the  miracle  of  love,  would 
accomplish  what  words  could  not  bring  about. 
After  they  had  eaten  they  went  to  one  of  the  gal 
leries,  and  throughout  the  long  afternoon  Tito's 
companion  talked  to  him  of  art,  pointing  out  to 
the  boy  what  he  might  accomplish  by  study  and 
work. 


301 


TITO 

Tito  listened  with  growing  interest,  and  under 
the  influences  of  the  cheering  words  of  the  artist, 
forgot  his  sorrow  for  the  time  being.  The  ex 
pression  on  his  face  changed,  his  eyes  lighted  up 
with  the  old-time  fire,  and  his  laugh  rang  out  with 
boyish  abandon. 

Night  found  them  standing  by  the  Arno,  where, 
a  year  ago,  the  boy  poured  out  his  life-story  and 
the  artist  had  listened  to  his  vow.  The  river  sang;- 
its  ceaseless  song,  the  last  lingering  rays  of  sunset 
touched  the  tower  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  the 
twilight  deepened  and  night  came  quickly.  And 
the  boy,  with  voice  tuned  in  harmony  with  the 
languorous  summer  night,  spoke  of  America,  tell 
ing  the  story  of  his  father's  encounter  with  the 
thief,  and  of  how,  with  a  woman's  tenderness,  he 
had  nursed  him  through  his  week  of  illness.  Con 
cluding,  his  tones  thrilling  with  pride,  he  described 
his  father  as  a  physical  god,  a  hero  before  whom 
all  men  should  bow,  and  the  night  shadows  hid  the 
smile  of  pleasure  and  satisfaction  on  the  face  of  his 
listener. 

"Tito,  to-morrow  you  will  return  home?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  boy,  sadly.  The  thought 
of  home  brought  to  mind  the  scarred  features  of 
Pietro,  and  his  voice  reflected  his  feeling  of  repug 
nance  as  he  thought  of  the  welcome  that  awaited 
him. 

"But  thou  shalt  not  remain  there,"  said  the 
p.rtist,  "thou  shalt  return  to  me  and  begfin  thy  life 
work.  Nay!  Do  not  protest,  'Little  Devil,'  it 
must  be  as  I  say." 

303 


TITO 

They  talked  far  into  the  night.  The  moon 
dipped  behind  the  western  hills,  the  stars,  mounted 
on  the  crest  of  the  distant  Apennines,  shone  with 
unusual  brilliancy,  and  the  repose  of  midnight  set 
tled  over  the  city. 

Tito  and  his  companion  walked  leisurely  home 
ward.  They  paused  before  Tito's  lodgings,  and 
the  artist  bade  him  an  affectionate  "good-night." 


303 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

IT  was  high  noon  of  the  following  day,  and  Tito 
walked  up  the  gravel  path  leading  to  the  door 
of  his  old  home.  The  shutters  were  closed  and 
the  door  locked,  but  this  he  expected,  for  he  had 
learned  at  the  village  that  Pietro  was  away  at 
work,  twenty  miles  in  the  country,  and  would  not 
return  until  the  following  Sunday.  He  had  re 
ceived  the  information  with  a  feeling  of  satisfac 
tion,  even  of  joy,  for  he  dreaded  the  meeting  with 
his  uncle.  Tito  was  aware  of  the  affection,  the 
fierce  love  with  which  the  old  man  regarded  him. 
It  is  with  such  love  a  wild  beast  guards  its  young, 
it  is  such  love  that  makes  heroes  of  men,  or,  when 
thwarted,  turns  one  of  Pietro's  nature  into  a  fiend. 

During  the  years  the  old  woman  had  trained 
Tito's  mind  in  viciousness,  Pietro  had  silently 
watched  the  growth  of  the  boy's  hate,  meanwhile 
lavishing  upon  him  a  wild,  idolatrous  love,  only 
such  as  those  who  are  childless,  who  have  lived  a 
simple,  though  semi-barbarous  life,  can  feel,  can 
know ;  and  there  was  no  time  during  Tito's  child 
hood  that,  if  occasion  arose,  the  old  man  would 
not  have  laid  down  his  life  for  the  boy,  and  with 
his  dying  breath  have  thanked  the  Madonna. 

Maria,  too,  he  must  meet ;  gentle,  trusting  little 
Maria,  who  had  shared  his  boyish  secrets,  his  joys 

304 


TITO 

and  his  sorrows, — his  champion  who  had  dared 
the  displeasure  of  those  who  had  cast  aspersion  on 
his  birth.  She,  he  knew,  would,  as  she  always 
had,  stand  by  him,  and  with  a  thrill  of  pride, 
which  was  love  knocking  at  the  door  of  his  young 
manhood,  he  anticipated  his  meeting  with  her. 

It  was  no  difficult  matter  for  him  to  gain  an 
entrance  to  the  house,  and  once  inside,  he  swung 
open  the  door  and  the  shutters  of  the  windows — 
the  bright  sunlight  dissolving  the  gloom  within. 

Walking  about  the  room,  with  a  feeling  of 
affection  he  handled  every  familiar  article  and, 
lovingly,  laid  them  again  in  their  accustomed 
places.  All  was  as  he  had  left  it,  even  to  the 
broken  crucifix  on  the  mantel,  where  it  had  lain 
since  the  night  when,  carried  away  by  passion,  he 
had  dashed  it  against  the  wall.  What  had  come 
and  gone  since  that  day,  how  his  young  life  had 
changed !  Then  with  the  arrogance  of  full- 
blooded  youth,  his  passion  fostered  by  the  old 
woman's  hate,  he  had  listened  to  the  tales  of  the 
vendetta  that  old  Pietro  instilled  into  his  mind. 
Now — sorrow,  remorse;  yet,  underlying  it  all,  a 
fire  he  could  not  quench,  a  voice  that  would  not 
be  stilled,  the  cry  of  love  for  his  father — the  father 
whom  he  should  hate.  Try  as  he  might,  he  could 
not,  for  any  length  of  time,  put  from  him  the 
vision  of  the  man  lying  unconscious  on  the  bed. 
Even  in  his  dreams  his  father's  words  haunted 
him,  and,  with  a  start,  he  would  wake  and  listen, 
and  believing  himself  again  in  Vanburg's  room, 
put  out  his  hand  to  make  sure  that  his  father  was 

305 


TITO 

not  with  him.  Would  this  memory  live? 
Through  all  the  years  must  he  hear  the  voice,  the 
entreating  tones  striking  upon  his  very  heart 
strings  with  their  longing  tenderness?  Would  the 
love  struggling  in  his  breast  die,  and  the  hate  that 
was  his  heritage  return?  Or,  in  the  years  of  sor 
row,  of  misery,  which  lay  before  him,  would  the 
voice,  tinged  with  reproach,  ask  him  why,  without 
a  word,  he  had  left  him — left  him  while  he  slept, 
leaving  behind  the  portrait  that  was  as  a  message 
from  the  grave? 

Tito,  standing  by  the  mantel,  raised  the  broken 
crucifix  in  the  air;  a  sob  preceded  his  words. 

"Madonna,  wilt  thou  guard  him?  If  he  still 
thinks  of  Tito,  if  he  should  know  that  the  'Little 
Devil'  is  the  son  he  disowns,  wilt  thou  tell  him  that 
the  hate  is  dead — tell  him,  Madonna  Mia,  that — 
that  I  love  him." 

Kissing  the  crucifix,  he  placed  it  on  the  mantel, 
then  with  the  tears  still  glistening  in  his  eyes,  went 
out  again  into  the  bright  sunlight. 

But  one  of  his  years  could  not  long  withstand 
the  influences  and  the  beauty  of  Nature,  the  roll 
ing  plain  sloping  to  the  Arno — the  Arno  of  his 
youth,  of  his  dreams. 

With  light  foot  he  ran  through  the  fields, 
bounding  over  hedges,  plunging  into  the  wood 
where  every  tree  and  stone  was  as  an  old  friend. 
Gradually  he  neared  the  river  singing  its  song  of 
joy,  as  when  he  had  sat  beside  it  last. 

"Dear  old  friend,"  he  said,  "thou  wilt  sing  to 
morrow  as  to-day.  Thou  dost  not  care  if  all  the 

306 


TITO 

vows  ever  made  were  broken — thou,  whose  song 
never  ceases — a  song  of  joy  for  those  whose  hearts 
are  glad,  tuning  thy  voice  in  harmony  with  those 
who  sorrow.  And  with  thy  siren  song,  those  who 
are  tired  of  the  world  dost  thou  woo  to  thy  bosom, 
enveloping  them  with  thy  watery  mantle,  chant 
ing  a  requiem  for  the  dead  as  they  do  in  church. 
Sing  now  to  me  a  tune  of  sorrow,  for  the  Tito  that 
thou  didst  know  is  no  more,  the  songs  that  he 
sang  for  thee  he  has  forgotten,  and  never  again 
shalt  thou  hear  his  voice.  Dost  thou  not  heed  me, 
Arno?  for  thou  babbles!  on  as  though  sorrow  was 
not  for  thee.  Wilt  thou,  too,  desert  me,  and  be 
cause  of  the  promises  I  made  to  thee,  that  I  have 
broken,  wilt  thou,  like  the  others,  cry  to  me  that 
I  am  a  coward?  Ah,  even  now,  I  can  hear  thy 
voice,  singing  the  words:  'Little  coward,  little 
coward.'  Wilt  thou  always  sing  thus  to  me? 
Hast  thou  forgotten  how  I  loved  thee?  Sing  to 
me  those  other  words  that  I  always  hear — 'Tito, 
come  back  to  me,  come  back.' ' 

Twilight,  like  a  blanket  of  gorgeous  hue,  envel 
oped  the  valley  when  he  returned  home  and,  after 
a  supper  of  bread  and  wine,  lay  down  and  slept — 
sleeping  as  they  sleep  whom  exhaustion  over 
powers. 

Early  the  next  morning  he  was  on  his  way  to 
find  Maria,  for  he  must  tell  her  all,  and  hear,  from 
her  own  lips,  that  she  would  not  look  upon  him 
with  scorn. 

Passing  through  the  straggling  street  of  the 
village,  he  was  met  by  those  whom  he  knew,  and 

307 


TITO 

they  lost  no  time  in  hailing  him  to  learn  his  exact 
social  status  since  his  return. 

"Well,  Piccolo  d'Ignotir 

Notwithstanding  Tito's  good  resolutions,  the 
offender  got  no  further,  for  the  boy,  with  blazing 
eyes  and  flushed  face  struck  out  with  lightning 
quickness,  and  his  tormentor,  the  blood  streaming 
from  his  nose,  measured  his  length  on  the  dusty 
road.  He  was  a  head  taller  than  Tito,  his  senior 
by  several  years;  and  it  was  only  by  the  sudden 
ness  of  the  attack  that  Tito  gained  the  advantage. 
But  his  blood  was  aroused,  and  the  Tito  of  old  was 
in  command.  It  was  not  alone  the  personal  insult 
that  he  resented,  for  the  words  were  a  reflection 
on  him  for  whom  he  would  have  done  battle  to  the 
death.  His  blood  was  afire;  he  would  deliver  an 
object  lesson,  and  eager  to  practice  the  art  of 
which  his  father  was  a  past-master,  before  his 
tormentor  was  well  on  his  feet,  a  stinging  blow 
between  the  eyes  again  sent  him  reeling  in  the 
dust,  where  Tito,  springing  upon  his  fallen  foe, 
considerately  rubbed  his  nose  in  the  dirt. 

"Now,  pig,"  quoth  Tito,  to  the  forlorn  looking 
figure  in  the  roadway,  "you  shall  kneel  there  and 
beg  my  forgiveness.  Do  you  hear?  There  shall 
you  stay  until  wisdom  comes  to  you  and  unlooses 
a  civil  tongue  in  your  head,  and  as  you  have  not 
wit  enough  to  use  it,  will  I  teach  you." 

The  culprit  was  about  to  rise  when  Tito,  stand 
ing  over  him,  assumed  a  threatening  attitude. 

"Blockhead,"  cried  the  enraged  Tito,  "if  you 
dare  to  get  on  your  feet  till  you  ask  my  forgive- 

308 


TITO 

ness,  I  will  cut  your  dirty  ears  off  with  this  knife," 
and  he  flashed  "Micky  de  Pinch's"  knife  in  the 
air.  But  his  anger  quickly  melted  into  a  smile  at 
the  look  of  terror  on  the  dirt-covered  visage  in 
the  roadway,  and,  putting  the  knife  in  his  pocket, 
his  merry  laugh  rang  loud  and  clear. 

The  apology  came,  but  not  being  broad  enough, 
nor  couched  in  language  sufficiently  abject,  the 
punctilious  Tito  dictated  the  words  which  his  vic 
tim  repeated  after  him.  Satisfied,  Tito  bade  him 
get  up  out  of  the  dirt. 

"Now,  go  and  tell  the  others  what  they  may 
expect.  They  shall  call  me  Tito,  nothing  else,  and 
should  their  memory  need  jogging,  let  them  look 
upon  your  nose.  I  learned  in  America  how  to 
dress  pigs." 

With  a  lordly  air  he  strode  down  the  road,  not 
deigning  further  notice  of  his  groveling  adversary. 

This  was  a  poor  beginning  after  his  return,  and 
no  sooner  was  he  out  of  sight  of  the  scene  of  his 
conflict,  than  his  conscience  cried  to  him  that  he 
was  still  the  "Little  Devil." 

The  priest  met  him  before  the  church  door  and 
regarded  the  boy  with  a  scowl. 

"Well,  <Demonietto>  you  have  come  back.  No 
better,  I'll  warrant !" 

"No  better,"  replied  the  boy  calmly,  "but  thou 
wilt  teach  me.  Parroco,  I  would  go  to  my  first 
communion." 

"What?"  cried  the  priest.  He  regarded  the  boy 
with  a  skeptical  air.  "You  are  not  practicing  your 
old  tricks?" 

309 


TITO 

"No,"  was  the  reply.  What,  thought  Tito, 
would  he  say,  could  he  see  him  whom  I  left  in  the 
road.  At  the  remembrance  he  nearly  laughed  in 
the  good  man's  face. 

"If  you  are  sincere  and  have  the  fear  of  God  in 
your  heart,  you  make  me  happy,"  said  the  priest 
gravely. 

Instantly  Tito  sobered.  The  memory  of  his 
position  rushed  over  him  with  overwhelming 
force.  In  the  eyes  that  sought  those  of  the  priest, 
there  was  entreaty,  supplication. 

"Good  Parroco,  truly  have  I  changed,  for 
trouble  is  with  me,  trouble  that  will  not  mend.  I 
have  learned  much  since  I  have  been  gone.  I 
have  prayed  to  the  Madonna,  and  the  good 
Mother  has  taught  me  what  God  is.  Wilt  thou 
hear  me  confess,  good  Parroco ?  for  I  would  re 
ceive  my  first  communion." 

"Come  to  me,  my  son,  on  Saturday,  and  on 
Sunday  morning  shalt  thou  receive  thy  first  com 
munion.  Till  then,  God  be  with  thee,  boy." 

Tito  lifted  his  cap  and  went  on  in  search  of 
Maria,  his  heart  filled  to  overflowing,  wishing  that 
Sunday  might  come  that  he  could  begin  his  new 
life.  But  apparently  the  message  given  to  his  late 
adversary  had  not  been  promulgated,  for  when 
opposite  the  home  of  his  good  friend,  the  doctor, 
he  was  hailed  from  across  the  street. 

"Thou  hast  found  thy  father !  Dost  know  what 
thy  name  is?" 

After  Tito's  interview  with  the  priest  he  was 
determined  to  submit  to  insult  rather  than  again 

310 


TITO 

resort  to  violence,  but  this  new  line  of  attack  non 
plused  him.  Now  it  was  his  father.  Tingling 
with  passion,  he  hesitated,  but  determined  to  go 
on.  A  second  voice  interrupted : 

"He  found  him  in  jail!  What  is  his  number, 
'Demonietto*  f" 

This  was  too  much,  and  the  good  resolutions 
were  again  forgotten.  Quickly  he  crossed  the 
street,  and  remembering  the  punishment  his  father 
had  administered  to  the  thieves,  he  struck  out  fast 
and  furious. 

There  was  concerted  action  on  the  part  of  the 
enemy  and,  three  to  one,  the  battle  waged,  one  of 
the  number  biting  the  dust  while  the  other  two, 
with  a  rush,  hurled  Tito  to  the  ground.  Again 
and  again  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  attacking  them  in 
turn,  blood  flowing  from  face  and  hands;  but  the 
unequal  struggle  was  telling  against  him,  and  he 
could  not  long  withstand  the  combined  forces. 
His  strength  was  nearly  exhausted,  the  blood 
streamed  from  his  face,  his  clothing  torn  and  cov 
ered  with  dust. 

There  was  a  sound  of  some  one  running,  and, 
hatless,  with  flashing  eyes,  Maria  stood  before  his 
tormentors. 

"For  shame,"  cried  the  girl,  "there  is  not  one  of 
you  who  dare  stand  before  him  alone.  See!  It 
takes  three  of  you — you  cowards.  Tito,  why  wilt 
thou  fight  with  them — and  thou  came  not  to  me, 
when  I  have  waited  for  thee  a  year.  Hast  thou 
forgotten  thy  Maria?" 


TITO 

"No,"  replied  the  boy,  and  turning  from  his 
tormentors,  he  warmly  embraced  her. 

"You  fight  like  goat-herders,"  said  Tito,  turn 
ing  to  his  adversaries.  "I  will  meet  you  singly, 
then  will  I  teach  you  the  art,  and,  if  you  be  slow  to 
learn,  will  I  hammer  it  into  your  dolt  heads. 
Come,  Maria,"  and  together  they  started  through 
the  fields  for  the  river. 

They  said  little  till  they  were  seated  by  the  Arno 
in  one  of  their  favorite  nooks,  after  Tito  had 
washed  the  blood  from  face  and  hands;  then,  sit 
ting  beside  her,  the  boy  looked  into  the  eyes  that 
were  fixed  upon  him  with  longing,  tender  love. 

"Art  thou  still  my  Maria?"  he  asked  gently. 

"Ah,  Tito,  I  waited  and  waited  for  thee !  Why 
didst  thou  not  come  back  to  me  before?  And 
when  I  asked  Pietro:  'Will  he  come  soon?'  his 
eyes  would  snap  fire  and  he  would  answer,  'No! 
He  will  never  come  while  the  father  lives.'  And 
oh,  Tito,  he  would  look  so  savage,  and  the  scar 
on  his  face  would  grow  red — like  blood.  And  I 
would  shudder  and  run  away.  I  knew  what  he 
meant,  and  I  prayed  and  prayed.  Ah!  The  Ma 
donna  must  have  heard.  Tell  me,  my  Tito,  is  thy 
father—" 

"I  have  broken  my  vow,"  answered  the  boy 
simply. 

"Thank  the  Cristo,"  murmured  Maria  fervently. 
"Ah,  the  Madonna  heard !" 

"But,"  exclaimed  Tito,  his  face  flushing  with 
the  thought,  "I  have  come  back  as  I  went  away — 
nameless.  And  they  will  scoff  at  me,  call  me  a 

312 


TITO 

coward,  aye,  worse,  and  I  must  say  nothing-,  for 
it  will  be  true.  And  Pietro  will  curse  me,  for,  on 
my  mother's  side,  am  I  not  of  his  blood?  But, 
Maria,  when  I  had  found  the  father  who  disowns 
me,  I  could  not — " 

"Tell  me  of  him,  Tito,  tell  me  all.  It  is  naught 
to  me  that  thou  hast  no  father.  Do  we  not  love 
each  other?  And  we  will  go  far  away  from  here 
where  no  one  will  know,  and  work  in  the  fields." 

Tito  told  her  of  his  search  for  his  father,  of  their 
first  meeting,  and  as  he  related  how,  with  a  knife 
wound  in  his  arm,  he  lay  ill  for  a  week  in  Van- 
burg's  room,  of  his  father's  care,  his  tenderness, 
the  boy's  voice  faltered  and  he  choked  back  the 
sobs.  Maria  listened,  her  color  coming  and  going, 
her  bosom  heaving,  the  tears  glistening  in  her 
eyes,  and,  when  her  companion  came  to  the  part 
ing  with  his  father,  when  he  had  left  him  asleep, 
her  sobs  broke  on  the  stillness  of  the  day,  and  in 
an  agony  of  feeling  she  threw  her  arms  about 
Tito's  neck. 

"Ah,  Tito,  how  couldst  thou  leave  him  so? 
Alone,  sick,  with  no  one  to  care  for  him !  Couldst 
thou  not  see  that  he  loved  thee,  that  he  was  glad 
when  thou  earnest  to  him?  And  to  leave  him 
without  a  word  !  It  was  cruel,  cruel !" 

Their  cheeks  were  pressed  together,  their  tears 
commingled,  and  again  a  guilty  pang  shot 
through  the  boy's  heart. 

Long  they  talked,  with  an  earnestness  and  wis 
dom  far  in  advance  of  their  years,  the  boy,  in  the 
short  time  he  had  been  absent,  having  acquired 

313 


TITO 

the  knowledge  that  bitter  experience  teaches. 
Maria  had  gained  the  sense  of  responsibility  that 
comes  from  years  of  self-reliance,  for  from  infancy 
she  had  been  forced  to  rely  upon  her  own  en 
deavors,  and  hers  was  the  wisdom  of  intuition  that 
Nature  teaches. 

They  talked  long  and  earnestly  formulating 
plans  for  the  future,  and  the  river  sang  to  them  as 
it  did  when  they  had  listened  to  it  in  the  years 
that  had  passed,  the  birds  flying  in  and  out  of  the 
branches  over  their  heads,  chirping  and  twittering 
derisively  at  the  youthful  lovers.  As  the  sun  de 
scended  in  the  west,  the  golden  beams  touched 
the  peaks  of  the  distant  hills,  turning  them  into 
flaming  gold  and,  bursting  through  the  purple 
haze,  fell  aslant  the  valley  in  a  mellow  flood  of 
light.  The  breezes  whispered  amorously,  and  the 
shivering  leaves  ceased  their  chatter — peace,  the 
peace  of  an  Italian  night  was  at  hand. 

And  a  calm  joy  soothed  the  young  lovers,  their 
hearts  were  as  one,  and,  as  they  rose  to  return 
home,  Tito  pressed  his  lips  to  Maria's  in  a  kiss  as 
holy  as  lover  ever  gave. 

"Thou  wilt  always  love  me,  my  Tito?" 

Her  eyes  sought  those  of  the  boy  with  the  frank 
ness  of  her  virgin  thoughts. 

"Always,"  he  replied. 

The  last  ray  of  sunlight  touched  their  upturned 
faces  in  benediction. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

SUNDAY  morning  came  and  the  sun  shone 
with  blinding  brilliancy;  the  flower-scented 
air  was  fragrant;  the  birds  sang  as  though 
they  were  never  to  be  heard  again;  and  all  Na 
ture  rejoiced  with  Tito,  for  it  was  the  one  mem 
orable  day  in  the  life  of  every  Italian — the  day  of 
his  first  communion. 

But  with  all  the  brightness  a  cloud  seemed  to 
hang  over  the  boy,  and  he  anticipated  the  event 
with  distrust,  with  fear,  with  dread  of  some  pend 
ing  disaster.  He  did  not  have  to  search  for  the 
cause— Pietro  had  not  returned,  and  it  was  this 
fact,  and  the  dread  of  their  meeting  that,  though 
he  tried  to  put  the  thought  from  him,  filled  him 
with  sickening  terror.  Yes,  even  terror,  for  he 
feared  the  wild,  searching  glance,  the  cold,  steely 
eyes  that  would  look  into  his  very  soul,  the  hor 
rible  scarred  features, — the  blood  concentrating 
where  the  knife  had  left  its  mark. 

Tito  nerved  himself  for  the  encounter.  What 
ever  the  outcome  of  their  meeting,  he  was  deter 
mined  to  shield  his  father,  yes,  he  would  sacrifice 
himself,  his  life  if  need  be,  for  his  father's  safety. 

But  as  the  time  came  for  him  to  go  to  the 
church  it  was  with  doubt  and  trembling  that  he 
started,  and,  as  he  went  along  the  dusty  road,  the 

315 


TITO 

bright  sunshine,  and  the  birds  caroling  from  hedge 
and  tree,  had  not  the  power  to  banish  his  presenti 
ment  of  coming  evil. 

The  peasants  in  their  Sunday  garb  were  gath 
ered  about  the  church  door.  As  he  passed  them 
and  entered  the  church,  dark,  scowling  visages 
greeted  him,  and  eyes  flashed  looks  of  doubt  and 
suspicion  at  the  "Little  Heretic." 

The  boy  had  chosen  his  own  life,  and  had 
mapped  out  the  course  he  would  pursue,  and,  with 
a  proud  bearing,  refused  to  notice  the  glances  of 
hate,  or  hear  the  taunts,  the  smothered  maledic 
tions  that  followed  him  into  the  church. 

Kneeling  in  one  of  the  pews  he  tried  to  pray, 
but  the  words  which  the  good  Parroco  had  taught 
him  became  an  incoherent  jumble,  and  his  con 
fused  brain  was  capable  only  of  framing  the  words : 
"Madonna,  forgive  me,  and  save  him." 

Mass  began,  the  choir  singing  with  a  religious 
fervor  that  is  born  in  every  Italian  breast.  After 
the  elevation  of  the  Host,  the  communicants  filed 
up  to  the  altar  and  knelt,  to  receive  the  body  of 
Christ. 

A  weakness  took  possession  of  Tito,  and,  as  he 
knelt  before  the  altar  rail,  a  mist  came  before  his 
eyes,  the  words  of  the  priest,  as  he  deposited  the 
sacred  Host  on  the  tongue  of  each  of  the  com 
municants,  buzzing  in  his  ears — unintelligible 
sounds. 

Gradually  the  priest  neared  the  boy,  and,  stand 
ing  before  him,  raised  the  sacred  Host,  repeating 
the  words  of  benediction.  A  rapid  step  coming 

316 


TITO 

down  the  centre  aisle  rang  on  the  quiet  of  the 
church,  and  Pietro,  his  eyes  aflame,  the  scar  on 
his  face  standing  out  with  threatening,  disgusting 
prominence,  grasped  Tito  in  his  powerful  arms 
and,  before  the  priest  could  deliver  the  sacrament, 
raised  him  to  his  feet.  The  priest  stood  motion 
less — transfixed  with  horror;  the  congregation 
rose  to  their  feet,  panic-stricken  in  their  supersti 
tious  fear,  which  was  their  one  dominant  trait,  be 
lieving  that  Heaven  in  its  wrath  had  interposed, 
making  the  old  man  its  instrument  of  vengeance. 

Pietro  turned  the  face  of  the  boy  to  him, — a 
face  that  was  livid,  his  own  distorted  features  so 
close  that  his  hot  breath  fanned  the  pallid  cheek, 
his  flaming  eyes  trying  to  read  the  answer  to  his 
thoughts  in  those  of  the  boy,  for  passion  choked 
him  and  it  was  some  seconds  before  he  could  frame 
the  words: 

"Boy,  hast  thou  kept  thy  vow?" 

The  fierce  intensity  of  his  tone  was  startling, 
his  powerful  voice  ringing  through  the  church, 
ominous,  threatening,  the  cry  of  an  avenging  soul 
calling  for  an  accounting. 

Tito,  though  the  color  had  left  his  cheek,  un 
flinchingly  met  the  look,  and  his  answer  came 
clear,  his  tone  unfaltering: 

"No." 

The  old  man's  face  became  livid. 

"Come !"  He  hissed  the  words,  yet  they  carried 
to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  church.  "One  of  thy 
mother's  blood  has  never  broken  a  vow." 

"Stop!"  cried  the  priest,  who  had  not  moved 

317 


TITO 

since  the  first  interruption.  Stupefied  with 
amazement,  horror,  he  had  remained  standing  at 
the  altar  rail,  the  Host  elevated  in  his  trembling 
finger,  "This  is  a  sacrilege.  Pietro,  the  curse  of 
God  will  follow  thee." 

But  Pietro  was  deaf,  blinded  by  passion. 

''Come,"  he  said,  and  with  his  hand  grasping 
Tito's  arm  dragged  him  down  the  centre  aisle,  by 
those,  who,  with  wild-eyed  amazement,  craned 
their  necks,  regarding  the  boy  as  an  emissary  of 
the  devil,  whom  the  good  Pietro  had  saved  from 
eternal  damnation. 

Tito's  face  was  pale,  but  he  walked  erect,  and,  as 
they  neared  the  door,  with  head  thrown  back,  his 
form  as  straight  as  an  arrow,  his  confidence  re 
turned,  and  the  spirit  of  his  father  spoke  with  the 
eloquence  and  the  pride  of  his  race. 

Just  outside  the  church,  the  boy  with  a  quick 
movement  freed  himself,  his  eyes  meeting  those  of 
the  old  man. 

"If  thou  wouldst  have  me  go  with  thee,  I  will 
go,  but  don't  lay  thy  hand  on  me!  Dost  hear, 
Pietro?  Don't!"' 

The  old  man's  face  relaxed.  For  an  instant,  an 
expression,  akin  to  savage  love,  shone  in  his  eyes, 
his  lips  trembled,  and  without  further  speech  they 
walked  quickly  homeward. 

Once  inside  the  house,  Pietro  was  the  first  to 
speak,  his  voice  husky  with  suppressed  emotion, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  face  of  the  boy  in  a  yearning, 
lingering  look, — pathetic  in  its  wild,  untamed 
passion. 


TITO 

"Have  I  not  watched  over  thee,  Tito,  since  thou 
wert  a  babe,  have  I  not  worked  in  the  fields,  deny 
ing  myself  all  but  the  bit  of  bread  and  wine,  and 
at  the  end  of  each  week  counting  the  soldi  to  see 
that  none  had  been  ill-spent,  that  thou  mightest 
have  all?  And  when  they  would  cheat  me,  have 
I  not  fought,  that  I  might  add  to  the  gold  pieces, 
which  shall  be  thine  when  the  good  God  calls  to 
me,  and  the  end  has  come  ?  Aye,  it  has  been  weary 
work,  but  the  thought  that  thou  wouldst  be  safe 
from  want  with  the  money  I  had  saved  for  thee — 
that  was  a  work  of  love !  And  in ,  the  fields  under 
the  hot  sun,  I  said,  'He  will  think  of  Pietro  when 
he  feels  the  good  gold  between  his  fingers.'  And 
I  heeded  not  the  work,  the  heat  or  the  suffering. 
But  I  also  said,  'He  is  of  my  blood — his  mother's 
blood  is  of  mine ;  he  will  not  forget !  That  blood 
was  never  stained  by  dishonor,  till  this  beast — this 
Americano  father,  thine,  stole  Bettina  from  us — 
Bettina  with  the  beauty  that  the  gods  give.' ' 

A  breath  of  passion  swept  over  him,  the  blood 
mounted  to  his  face,  and,  with  clenched  hands,  his 
breath  coming  in  short  gasps,  he  leaned  over  the 
table  which  was  between  him  and  the  boy. 

"Look  thou,  Tito,  at  that  scar!" 

Tito  raised  his  eyes,  and  shuddering  looked 
away  again, — the  face  was  revolting,  the  blood 
shot  eyes  those  of  a  wild  animal. 

"He  who  left  that  scar  is  dead.  Night  and  day 
I  searched  for  him,  never  resting,  tracking  him 
from  place  to  place,  as  a  hound  follows  the  trail  of 
a  wild  beist,  until — " 

3*9 


TITO 

He  laughed,  and  the  blood  in  the  boy's  veins 
chilled, — the  sound, unnatural,  inhuman,  dying  into 
a  chuckle  of  satisfaction. 

"Tell  me!"  Again  he  was  the  Pietro,  who, 
standing  before  the  altar,  had  defied  Heaven's 
wrath,  the  concentrated  passion  of  a  lifetime 
gleaming  from  his  partly  closed  eyes,  his  lips  quiv 
ering  in  his  attempt  at  self-restraint.  "Thou  hast 
seen  this  father?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Tito.  His  voice  was  low,  and 
he  calmly  met  the  glaring  eyes  that  were  fixed 
upon  his  face. 

"And  thou  hast  come  back, — here,  where  they 
point  at  thee  with  scorn!  Why,  Tito,  hast  thou 
forgotten  thy  vow  ?  Did  he  offer  thee  some  of  his 
dirty  money  ?  And  the  blood  in  thee  that  is  his — " 

"No,"  Tito's  voice  rang  out  clear.  "No,  he  has 
naught !  He  is  as  poor  as  I !  And  he  was  good 
to  me.  Though  he  disowned  me,  though  with  his 
own  lips  he  has  told  me  he  has  no  son,  I  could 
not — " 

The  old  man  raised  his  hand  to  signify  that  he 
had  heard  enough,  and,  rising,  went  to  the  cup 
board,  returning  with  a  bottle  of  red  wine.  Pour 
ing  a  goblet  full  he  drank;  again  filling  the  glass 
he  drained  it.  Seating  himself  at  the  table  he 
turned  to  Tito.  His  features  had  assumed  their 
normal  aspect,  but,  had  the  boy  been  observant, 
he  might  have  read  in  the  eyes  suppressed  passion, 
smouldering,  glowing  with  the  flame  of  hate,  but 
veiled  with  stolid,  crafty  cunning. 

"Tell  me/'  said  the  old  man,  "of  thy  journey, 
320 


TITO 

tell  me  all  from  the  time  of  the  parting  with  me 
here." 

His  was  an  ominous  calm  and  foreboded  evil, 
but  the  boy  accepted  his  tone  of  assumed  indiffer 
ence  as  a  surrender  to  the  inevitable.  With  a  feel 
ing  of  satisfaction  at  the  old  man's  changed  man 
ner,  Tito  began  a  recital  of  his  journey,  hurrying 
over  his  meeting  with  the  artist  in  Florence  as  he 
noted  the  impatience  of  his  listener,  pausing  in  his 
narrative  at  the  old  man's  request  to  describe 
again  and  again  the  steamship,  how  he  procured 
his  passage,  the  cost,  and  every  detail  connected 
with  his  start  from  Genoa.  Still  no  thought  came 
to  him  but  that  he  was  satisfying  the  curiosity  of 
his  listener,  who,  with  head  bent  forward,  and  alert 
ear,  fixed  every  detail  in  his  memory.  When  Tito 
attempted  to  describe  the  sea  voyage,  the  old  man, 
with  an  impatient  wave  of  his  hand,  hurried  him 
on  to  the  meeting  with  his  father,  and,  as  he  lis 
tened,  when  Tito's  tone  betrayed  the  affection 
that  gave  to  his  words  a  tender  inflection,  the 
eyes  of  his  listener  shot  fiery  gleams,  his  breath 
came  in  gasps,  and,  with  trembling  hand,  he  filled 
the  tumbler  to  the  brim  with  wine  and  drank  it 
almost  at  one  draught. 

"Yes,"  he  interjected,  with  impatience,  "and  his 
home !  Tell  me  of  that !  What  does  he  do?  Does 
he  work?  What  is  his  home  like?  Where  is  it? 
How  couldst  thou  find  it?  And  this  place  where 
thou  didst  first  meet  him!  This  cafe!  Tell  me 
again,  for  T  would  know  this  marvelous  tale,  that 
I  may,  sitting  under  a  tree,  over  the  bread  and 

321 


TITO 

wine  at  noonday,  tell  those  who  may  not  believe 
of  thy  father." 

Again  and  again  did  Tito  recount  his  experi 
ences  in  New  York,  and  the  stolid,  impenetrable 
expression  on  the  old  man's  face  never  changed; 
even  his  eyes,  with  devilish  cunning,  veiled;  noth 
ing  to  tell  the  boy  that  the  brain  of  the  listener 
was  aflame  with  murderous  design. 

When  Tito  came  to  the  parting  with  his  father, 
his  voice  shook  with  emotion,  and,  as  he  recounted 
the  temptation  to  take  his  father's  life,  despite  his 
efforts  sobs  broke  in  the  quiet  of  the  room,  and 
his  head  fell  on  his  arm  that  he  might  hide  his 
tears. 

Could  he  at  that  moment  have  seen  Pietro's 
distorted  features,  livid  with  rage,  the  blood-red 
scar,  a  signal  of  disaster,  standing  out  on  his  face 
with  revolting  clearness,  he  would  have  cried  aloud 
to  the  good  God  that  he  might  have  been  struck 
dumb  before  he  had,  by  his  unguardedness,  placed 
the  life  he  loved  in  jeopardy.  But  no  guardian 
spirit  whispered  to  him  that,  by  his  own  words, 
he  had  pointed  out  to  Pietro  the  way  of  vengeance, 
and  when  with  moist  eyes  he  looked  up,  it  was 
only  to  meet  the  smiling  face  of  the  old  man. 

"And  the  knife,  my  Tito,  thou  hast  it  still?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  boy,  and  he  placed  "Micky 
de  Pinch's"  knife  on  the  table. 

The  old  man's  bony  fingers  closed  upon  the 
knife. 

"Oh !"  he  said  with  a  sickening  leer,  "it  is  keen 
and  the  blade  is  good !  See !  my  Tito,  we  will  stick 

322 


TITO 

it  here — thus !"  and  he  plunged  the  blade  into  the 
wooden  casing  of  the  window,  half  way  to  the  hilt. 
"We  will  leave  it  here  that  we  may  see,  and  it  will 
remind  thee  that  thy  father  still  lives." 

Tito  remained  silent.  He  was  downcast  and  his 
heart  was  heavy  with  sorrow. 

It  was  not  alone  the  uncle's  thirst  for  revenge 
that  stirred  his  rage.  The  boy's  affectionate  allu 
sion  to  his  father,  his  evident  sorrow  and  regret, 
when,  in  relating  the  story  of  their  last  meeting 
he  spoke  of  leaving  Vanburg  alone,  ill,  with  no  one 
to  care  for  him,  revealed  to  the  old  man  the  boy's 
love.  All  Pietro's  jealous  instincts  leaped  to  the 
surface,  stinging  him  into  a  rage;  and  when  he 
had  listened  to  the  boy  speaking  of  his  father  with 
a  yearning,  pathetic  tenderness,  it  roused  him  to  a 
jealous  frenzy.  With  the  fear  that  the  boy  would 
discover  his  feelings,  that  he  would  read  in  his  face 
the  sinister,  gloating  joy  that  filled  him,  he  busied 
himself  about  the  fire,  preparing  the  mid-day  meal ; 
and  Tito,  sitting  before  the  door,  reveled  in  the 
bright  sunlight,  thinking  of  Maria  and  the  future 
of  which  they  had  talked. 

Pietro  called  to  him,  and,  entering  the  house, 
he  found  the  meal  prepared,  consisting  of  a  hot 
soup,  with  bread  and  wine. 

They  ate  their  dinner  in  silence.  Tito  gave  his 
attention  to  the  food,  not  caring  to  meet  the  glance 
which  never  left  his  face — but  the  boy  felt  the 
eyes  upon  him  and,  shifting  uneasily  in  his  chair, 
sought  the  first  excuse  to  make  his  escape. 

"Thou  wilt  go  to  the  village,"  laughed  Pietro, 
323 


TITO 

"to  see  Maria,  aye,  that  I  know.  It  is  well,  for  I 
have  much  to  do.  To-night  I  must  go  to  the  fields, 
and  I  may  not  be  here  on  thy  return.  Thou  wilt 
find  everything  for  thy  needs  in  the  pantry — it  is 
well  stocked.  I  will  leave  thee  money,  my  Tito, 
that  thou  mayst  want  for  nothing,  and  when  thou 
spendest  the  soldi,  thou  wilt  think  of  Pietro." 

"I  have  money,"  replied  Tito,  quietly.  "I  shall 
want  for  nothing.  I,  too,  shall  work  in  the  fields." 

"Thou !"  cried  the  old  man,  laughing  shrilly, 
"work  in  the  fields !  Thou  wouldst  not  last  the  day 
out.  Work  thou  shalt  not  while  old  Pietro  lives." 

Tito  did  not  reply. 

"Tell  me  again  of  Genoa,  I  have  never  been 
there,"  said  the  old  man  innocently.  "Tell  me  of 
the  steamship — what  is  it  like?  I  have  never  seen 
one." 

Again  Tito  told  him  what  he  knew  of  the  city, 
little  dreaming  what  use  Pietro  would  make  of  the 
information.  Then,  when  the  old  man  seemed 
satisfied,  Tito  with  a  promise  to  return  early 
started  in  the  direction  of  the  village,  for  he  had 
promised  Maria  that,  after  Mass  was  finished,  they 
would  go  to  the  Arno  and  talk  of  their  future  and 
of  America. 

After  Tito  had  gone,  Pietro  stood  before  the 
open  door  and  watched  him  till  he  was  lost  to 
sight,  then  returned  to  the  house. 

"So  the  father  lives!"  He  spoke  as  though  he 
were  addressing  some  one  within  hearing:  "And 
the  boy  loves  him !  Again  must  he  steal  the  love 
that  should  be  mine.  The  boy  will  go  back  to 

324 


TITO 

him — that  I  know,  for  already  his  heart  is  his, — 
his,  and  I.  Pietro,  who  have  slaved  for  him  am  as 
naught.  I— 

Grasping  the  knife,  he  wrenched  it  from  the  cas 
ing,  and  a  wild,  inhuman  laugh  rang  on  the  still 
ness. 

"But  this  blade  shall  yet  find  his  heart !  And  it 
shall  be  I  who  shall  ask  him  why  he  stole  the 
mother,  and  then  the  boy's  love !" 

Going  into  an  adjoining  room  he  took  from  a 
chest  a  purse, — the  money  he  was  hoarding  for 
Tito, — and,  placing  it  in  a  leather  belt,  strapped  it 
securely  about  his  waist.  His  movements  were 
rapid,  his  intention  so  well  defined,  that  he  went 
about  the  preparations  for  his  journey  with  the 
thoroughness  of  one  used  to  travel.  The  boy, 
when  he  returned,  would  believe  that  he  had  gone 
to  his  labor  in  the  fields,  many  miles  distant,  and 
he  was  careful  to  leave  no  clue  as  to  his  purpose. 

When  all  was  in  readiness  he  securely  locked 
the  house,  and,  leaving  the  key  in  its  accustomed 
place  where  the  boy  could  find  it,  started  on  his 
journey.  . 

Tito,  meanwhile,  with  Maria,  was  wandering  by 
the  banks  of  the  river,  happy  as  children  of  their 
age  are  when  the  sun  shines,  and  the  long  summer 
days  open  to  them  a  kingdom  of  their  own.  Yet 
the  boy  was  keenly  alive  to  the  disgrace  of  the 
morning,  and  Maria,  who  was  a  witness  to  Pietro's 
act,  shared  with  him  his  humiliation. 

"Do  not  mourn,"  pleaded  Maria.  "Pietro  is 
mad!  I  have  heard  them  say  as  much  in  the  vil- 

325 


TITO 

lage.  Now  that  thou  hast  told  him  all,  he  will 
forgive  thee  for  loving  thy  father." 

"No,"  he  replied,  "that' he  will  not.  Thou  dost 
not  know  him — he  never  forgives.  I  am  sorry  I 
told  him.  And  now — how  can  I  stay  here  after 
what  happened  in  the  church?  At  my  first  com 
munion  !  Maria,  it  is  unlucky — they  will  say  there 
is  a  curse  upon  me." 

"Thou  must  not  stay  here,  thou  wilt  go  far  away, 
and  I  shall  go  with  thee,  my  own  Tito;  and  to 
gether  will  we  work  in  the  fields,  and  no  one  will 
know.  And  we  will  save  and  save,  and  then  shall 
we  go  to  America,  and  perhaps — " 

The  boy  realized  what  she  would  say.  The 
blood  mounted  to  his  face. 

"No,"  he  said  with  decision,  "that  cannot  be. 
My  father  has  no  son,  and  much  as  I  love  him,  and 
I  do  love  him,  Maria — " 

"Ah,  I  know  it,  my  Tito,"  and  two  bare,  plump 
arms  stole  about  his  neck,  two  lips,  with  the  ful 
ness  of  budding  womanhood,  were  pressed  to  his 
cheek,  and  the  boy  tingled  with  a  new-found  joy. 

"And  I  love  thee  the  more  for  loving  him,"  she 
continued,  with  the  candor  of  childhood.  And 
sometime  I  shall  go  to  him  and  say:  'Dost  thou 
know  that  Tito  loves  thee,  Tito,  thy  son?' ' 

Tito  threw  his  arms  about  her,  and  pressed  his 
cheek  to  hers. 

"My  own  Maria." 

It  was  all  he  could  say,  for  his  joy  was  great, 
and  the  tears  of  happiness  welled  to  his  eyes. 

The  dusk  of  evening  was  with  them  and,  hand 
326 


TITO 

in  hand,  loitering  through  the  fields,  climbing  over 
hedges,  pausing  to  watch  for  the  coming  stars, 
they  went  slowly  homeward,  glorying  in  the  night, 
and  the  mysteries  of  budding  love. 

When  Tito  reached  home  he.  found  it  dark. 

"He  has  gone  to  his  work,"  he  mused,  "for  a 
week  I  shall  riot  see  him,  for  which  I  thank  the 
good  Madonna." 

At  that  moment  Pietro,  on  his  mission  of  ven 
geance,  was  leaving  Florence  by  the  night  train 
for  Genoa. 


327 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

SUNDAY  afternoon  was  the  customary  time 
for  Pietro  to  start  for  the  scene  of  his  labors, 
it  being  not  unusual  for  him  to  walk  twenty 
miles  or  more  to  where  he  was  employed;  and, 
with  the  exception  of  the  disappearance  of  "Micky 
de  Pinch's"  knife,  there  was  nothing  to  arouse 
Tito's  suspicions. 

For  the  three  days  following  the  old  man's  de 
parture,  the  boy  had,  except  such  time  as  he  had 
been  with  Maria,  remained  at  home,  not  wishing 
to  meet  those  that,  the  past  Sunday,  had  witnessed 
his  disgrace.  He  had  time  to  think,  and  his 
thoughts  were  not  conducive  to  peace  of  mind. 
On  one  point  he  was  decided — he  must  get  away 
• — to  some  city  where  the  curse  would  not  follow 
him,  where,  in  new  scenes,  he  could  begin  life 
anew.  It  was  not  alone  this  feeling  that  moved 
him,  he  wished  to  escape  from  the  influence,  the 
companionship  of  Pietro,  whom  he  feared ;  and  the 
affection,  the  wild,  barbaric  love  which  he  lavished 
upon  the  boy  awakened  a  feeling  of  repulsion, 
which  grew  into  disgust.  He  felt  a  guilty  shame 
that  he  could  not  respond  to  what,  on  the  old 
man's  part,  was  a  yearning  for  love,  but  their  na 
tures  were  widely  different,  and  the  boy  shrank 
from  him  in  distrust. 

328 


TITO 

The  afternoon  of  the  Wednesday  following  Pie- 
tro's  departure,  Tito  and  Maria  had  spent  to 
gether,  happy  in  their  love,  with  childish  enthus 
iasm,  but  with  the  wisdom  of  years,  planning  a 
future  that  promised  a  happiness  which,  at  the  mo 
ment,  seemed  far  from  them.  Tito  had  returned 
home,  and,  with  a  mighty  effort,  was  endeavoring 
to  read  an  English  book  he  had  brought  from 
America.  A  hurried  step  echoed  on  the  walk,  and 
Maria,  her  hair  disheveled,  breathless  from  having 
run  all  the  way  from  the  village,  entered  the  house. 
In  her  excitement,  before  Tito  could  demand  the 
cause,  she  grasped  him  by  the  arm  as  though  to 
drag  him  to  the  door. 

"Tito,"  she  cried,  her  voice  tremulous  with  fear, 
"thy  father!  Pietro  has  gone  to  America!" 

She  could  say  no  more,  but  the  terror-stricken 
glance  which  she  fixed  on  his  face  spoke  her  fears. 
Tito  stood  transfixed — dumb  with  amazement. 
With  lightning-like  quickness  his  mind  grasped 
her  statement,  her  meaning.  The  incidents  fol 
lowing  Pietro's  return  to  the  house  flashed  be 
fore  him — his  recital  of  his  experiences  in  Amer 
ica,  the  old  man's  desire  for  information,  his  own 
unguardedness,  the  disappearance  of  the  knife — all 
now  appeared  to  him  luminously  clear,  and  his 
heart  sickened  with  dread.  For  some  moments  he 
was  unable  to  speak,  his  brain  reeled.  Maria's 
hand  clutched  his  arm,  her  eyes  were  riveted  on 
his  face,  and  she  read  there  the  train  of  emotions 
which  swept  over  him, — remorse,  fear,  dread  ex 
pectancy,  followed  by  a  set  expression,  a  determi- 

329 


TITO 

nation  to  act,  and  act  quickly.  With  a  brave  effort 
she  controlled  herself  and  found  voice : 

"My  cousin,  Angelo,  he  who  sells  fruit  in  the 
great  market  at  Florence,  returned  to-night.  He 
has  had  trouble  with  Pietro,  and  they  do  not  speak 
to  each  other.  Sunday  night  in  the  station  at 
Florence  he  was  waiting  for  Michael,  who  works 
for  him.  There  he  saw  Pietro  buying  a  ticket  for 
Genoa,  and  he  was  inquiring  when  the  steamship 
sailed  for  America." 

She  paused,  breathless,  her  eyes,  wild  in  their 
expression,  fixed  on  the  boy's  face,  her  attitude 
that  of  one  ready  to  act,  to  start  at  once  for  Amer 
ica  to  save  the  father  from  Pietro's  knife. 

Tito's  mind,  with  lightning  speed,  was  planning 
the  course  he  would  pursue,  yet  when  he  realized 
that  Pietro  was  in  possession  of  all  the  information 
necessary,  that  he  had  a  start  of  three  days  and 
was  well  on  his  journey,  for  an  instant  panic  seized 
him.  But  it  quickly  passed,  and  his  decision  came 
without  hesitation,  his  words  rapidly,  determina 
tion  in  his  voice  and  stamped  on  every  line  of  his 
features. 

"Maria,  I  shall  go.  There  is  a  quicker  way  than 
by  Genoa.  By  Paris  and  England,  from  where  the 
boats  go  quickly.  This  they  told  me  on  the  ship 
that  brought  me  from  America.  The  good  doctor 
in  the  village  will  tell  me  more.  I  have  money," 
said  the  boy,  "the  money  which  the  good  friends 
in  America  gave  to  me;  Pietro  left  me  more,  for 
which  I  thank  the  good  Madonna,  who  will  guide 
me,  and" — his  voice  trembled — "protect  the  father 

330 


TITO 

whom  I  love.  Come,  Maria,  we  will  go  to  the 
church,  and  there  will  we  pray  to  the  good  God — 
I  have  learned  the  words.  Then  will  I  talk  to  the 
kind  doctor,  who  will  tell  me  more.  Come." 

Together,  hand  in  hand,  they  entered  the 
church,  and  kneeling  in  the  darkness,  in  their  sim 
ple  way  asked  Heaven  to  guide  them,  and  to  pre 
serve  him  whose  life  they  would  save. 

Leaving  the  church  with  a  feeling  of  calm,  a 
new-born  confidence,  they  parted  at  the  door, 
Maria  hurrying  away  to  make  preparations  for  his 
journey,  while  Tito  went  to  the  home  of  the  vil 
lage  doctor  to  learn  what  he  could  to  forward  him 
on  his  mission. 

The  doctor,  learning  of  Pietro's  purpose,  and 
the  boy's  determination  to  save  his  father,  entered 
into  minute  details,  and  Tito,  after  fervently 
thanking  him,  hurried  away  with  the  confidence 
that  knowledge  brings. 

Two  hours  later  they  were  at  the  station,  Maria's 
head  resting  on  the  boy's  shoulder,  his  arm  around 
her,  breathing  words  of  encouragement  into  her 
ears  to  check  the  tears  that  streamed  down  her 
sun-tanned  cheeks.  The  train  lazily  came  to  a 
halt;  a  parting  embrace,  and  Tito  had  begun  his 
journey. 

The  train  rumbled  on  in  true  Italian  fashion, 
stopping  at  every  station,  whizzing  and  puffing. 
Noisy,  revelous  countrymen,  conscripts  in  the  first 
intoxication  of  enforced  patriotic  fervor,  super 
induced  by  much  native  wine,  filled  the  carriages, 
and  our  youthful  traveler,  his  mind  dwelling  on  his 

331 


TITO 

race  with  death,  sat  silent  in  a  corner  of  the  com 
partment. 

But  a  continental  soldier,  recently  recruited, 
rilled  in  anticipation  with  the  exuberance  of  forth 
coming  glory  and  an  over-supply  of  native  wine  is, 
like  an  unbroken  colt  of  indifferent  blood,  an  un 
pleasant  creature  if  judged  at  short  range.  Tito 
incited  in  one  of  this  class  a  prolonged  stare,  then 
a  drunken  smirk,  and  finally  the  words: 

"Young  one,  art  thou,  too,  going  to  be  a  sol 
dier?  Thou  art  much  too  pretty!  Thy  cherub 
face  was  not  meant  to  be  burned  with  powder." 

It  was  now  Tito's  turn  to  stare ;  he  improved  the 
opportunity.  But  an  ominous  scowl  should  have 
warned  the  newly  made  warrior  to  desist.  The 
soldier's  eyes,  however,  were  bleared  by  drink,  and 
he  did  not  note  the  threatening  attitude  of  the  boy 
who  sat  facing  him  or,  if  he  did,  refused  to  seri 
ously  consider  him. 

"Come,  stand  up,  that  I  may  look  at  thee.  I 
may  yet  be  thy  superior  officer.  It  will  then  be 
thy  duty  to  clean  my  boots." 

He  attempted  to  lay  his  hands  on  Tito  to  en 
force  his  command,  but  the  boy  pushed  him  back 
into  his  seat. 

"You  are  drunk !"    Tito  held  rein  on  his  temper. 

"What  now,"  jeered  the  conscript.  "Thy  tem 
per  needs  curbing!  Thou  beardless  little  brat, 
thou  art  old  enough  to  learn  to  obey  thy  superiors. 
I  will  teach  thee." 

Again  he  partly  rose,  but  Tito's  clenched  fist 
shot  out  and,  with  a  smothered  oath,  the  fellow  fell 

332 


TITO 

back  into  his  seat.  His  companions,  more  sober 
than  he,  restrained  him,  and  for  the  time  being 
hostilities  were  at  an  end. 

"You  can  strike  well,"  said  the  conscript,  as  they 
neared  Florence,  but  you  must  learn  to  respect  a 
future  commissioned  officer — the  stripes  I  will  yet 
earn." 

"Yes,"  answered  Tito  blandly,  "in  the  cook's 
scullery.  You  were  born  to  do  battle  in  a  kitchen. 
The  smell  of  powder  would  sicken  you  with  fear." 

"Thy  tongue  is  in  need  of  a  pair  of  shears," 
quoth  the  wit. 

"So  are  your  ears,  they  are  the  stamp  of  your 
breed — that  of  an  ass." 

Tito  smiled  sweetly ;  the  soldiers  roared  at  their 
comrade's  discomfiture.  Apparently  Tito  was  in 
command  of  the  field. 

"Young  one,  I'll  pull  thy  nose  for  thee,"  cried 
the  warrior  with  rising  anger. 

"Do."  came  the  quick  reply,  "if  it  will  kill  the 
scent  of  your  breath.  It  reeks  with  garlic  and 
wine  that  is  too  foul  to  sell.  Ach !" 

This  was  too  much  and  the  offender  made  an 
attempt  to  rise,  but  his  companions  grasped  him 
by  the  arms  and  forced  him  back  into  his  seat. 

The  train  pulled  into  the  station  at  Florence  and 
the  boy  alighted. 

Here  fortune  favored  him,  and  with  only  a  few 
minutes'  delay,  which  gave  him  opportunity  to 
purchase  food,  he  was  rushing  northward,  over 
rolling  plain,  through  village  and  city,  the  grind 
ing,  snorting  engine,  with  a  giant's  power,  mount- 

333 


TITO 

ing  the  foothills  of  the  Alps : — through  tunnels  and 
over  mountain  passes,  flying  over  bridges  spanning 
deep  ravines,  till  the  fair  plains  of  sunny  France 
welcomed  him. 

Counting  the  time  since  Pietro's  departure,  the 
boy  added  each  succeeding  hour  to  the  three  days 
before  he  discovered  his  uncle  had  gone.  Did 
the  train  stop  at  a  station  but  for  a  few  minutes,  he 
fretted  under  the  enforced  delay,  and  it  seemed  to 
the  impatient  traveler  as  if  the  combined  forces  of 
nature,  and  machinations  such  as  human  ingenuity 
could  devise,  were  in  league  to  retard  his  progress. 
But  at  last  the  train  reached  Paris,  and,  though 
he  marveled  at  the  beauty  of  such  part  of  the  city 
as  he  passed  through,  he  lost  no  time,  but  hurried 
on  to  the  Guard  du  Nord  on  his  way  to  London. 

Again  he  rushed  on,  eating  where  opportunity 
presented,  sleeping  in  the  corner  of  the  railway 
carriage,  for  the  greater  part  of  the  time  silent, 
thoughtful,  only  when,  for  the  hundredth  time,  he 
counted  the  days  and  the  hours,  speculating  upon 
the  possibility  of  catching  a  fast  steamer  that  was 
to  sail  from  Liverpool  the  following  day. 

Many  were  the  looks  of  admiration  that  were 
directed  toward  him,  for  the  boy's  self-reliant, 
sturdy  manliness,  aroused  the  interest  of  those 
that  he  encountered.  But  he  was  unconscious  of 
all  but  the  passing  time ;  his  thoughts  not  of  him 
self  but  of  Pietro,  speeding  across  the  ocean,  and 
of  the  father  who  was  forever  waiting  his  son's 
return. 

London  at  last,  where  he  procured  a  third-class 
334 


TITO 

ticket  and,  within  the  hour,  he  was  on  his  way 
again,  this  time  for  Liverpool,  and  one  of  the  fast 
est  steamships  that  crosses  the  ocean. 

The  following  morning  found  him  aboard.  The 
customary  bustle,  a  jargon  of  all  kinds — stewards, 
deck-hands,  the  officers  of  the  steamer,  and  repre 
sentatives  of  all  the  nationalities  of  the  continent, 
mixed  promiscuously ;  yet  out  of  it  all  a  marvelous 
degree  of  systematic  order,  and  the  steamer  headed 
for  Queenstown.  Here  came  another  delay,  and 
it  was  only  after  the  steamer  had  left  the  harbor 
and  lay  her  course  due  west  that  Tito  suppressed 
his  impatience  and  settled  himself  comfortably  for 
the  journey. 

But  he  had  not  been  idle.  He  sought  knowl 
edge  and,  realizing  the  power  of  a  generous  tip, 
before  the  land  disappeared  the  head  steward  was 
supplying  him  with  information. 

"I  shall  arrive  in  New  York,"  he  mused,  "the 
same  day  as  Pietro — perhaps  before.  He  goes  by 
a  much  longer  route,  and  the  ship  he  is  on  is  of 
slow  speed.  Heaven  grant  that  I  may,"  he  added 
fervently. 

Each  day  the  boy  deducted  the  number  of  knots 
the  ship  had  made  from  the  distance  that  separated 
him  from  his  journey's  end;  and  each  night,  when 
quiet  reigned,  he  stole  on  deck,  and,  in  a  secluded 
part  of  the  ship,  prayed  to  the  Madonna  to  guard 
him  that  he  might  be  on  time,  and  that  the  good 
God  soften  the  heart  of  Pietro  and  turn  him  from 
his  vengeance.  And  a  great  peace  came  to  him, 
filling  his  heart  to  overflowing,  and  as  the  days 

335 


TITO 

went  by,  and  the  ship  drew  nearer  the  land,  he  saw 
new  beauties  in  the  sea,  and  at  night  the  wonders 
of  the  starlit  heavens  spoke  to  him  of  a  wonderful, 
unseen  power  that  guides  the  destinies  of  the 
world ;  and  of  a  morning,  with  the  bright  sunlight 
dancing  on  harbor  and  river,  he  arrived  at  New 
York. 

The  hours  of  waiting  until  he  could  land  seemed 
ages.  His  impatience  grew  with  the  day,  but  in 
the  late  afternoon  he  was  hurrying  up  town  in  the 
direction  of  Vanburg's  lodgings.  But  here  he  met 
his  first  disappointment — Vanburg,  although  still 
retaining  his  room,  had  not  slept  there  for  several 
weeks,  and  he  could  learn  nothing  as  to  where  he 
could  be  found  or  when  he  would  return. 


336 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

KNOWING  where  McGlennon  lived,  after 
having  visited  Death  House  Joe's,  and  fail 
ing  to  obtain  any  information  that  would 
guide  him  in  his  search,  Tito  decided  to  go  to  the 
home  of  the  Scotchman,  in  the  hope  that  he  might 
learn  where  Vanbtirg  could  be  found. 

But  McGlennon,  after  he  had  sought  him  out 
at  the  docks,  could  tell  him  nothing.  He  had  not 
seen  Vanburg  for  more  than  a  week,  for  he  had 
not  done  any  work  in  that  length  of  time,  and 
though  the  Scotchman  had  searched  for  him  at  his 
usual  haunts,  no  one  knew  of  his  whereabouts. 

McGlennon  was  overjoyed  to  see  the  boy,  and, 
as  it  was  near  the  noon  hour,  he  prevailed  on  Tito 
to  accompany  him  to  a  cheap  restaurant  where, 
when  the  meal  was  finished,  the  boy  listened  while 
his  companion  spoke  of  his  father,  and  of  his  sor 
row  when  his  son  had  left  him. 

"I  tell  you,  boy,  for  a  week  after  you  had  gone, 
the  man  was  mad,  aye,  crazed  with  grief.  Day 
and  night  I  stayed  with  him,  for  he  would  not  eat, 
he  could  not  sleep ;  and  he  tramped  about  the  city 
— looking  for  you  always.  At  the  end  of  a  week  I 
called  in  a  physician  and  we  put  him  under  the 
influence  of  an  opiate — by  that  time  the  man  was 
daft,  clean  daft.  We  made  him  sleep  for  two  days, 

337 


TITO 

but  since  then  he  is  not  the  same.  The  life  is  gone 
out  of  him,  and  he  thinks  and  talks  only  of  you. 
Find  him,  Tito,  for  if  you  do  not — " 

"I  shall  find  him/'  said  the  boy  in  a  confident 
tone.  "I  shall  find  him,  for  the  good  Madonna  has 
so  willed  it,  and,"  he  added  musingly,  "he  still 
thinks  of  the 'Little  Devil?" 

"Think  of  you !"  repeated  McGlennon,  "boy,  it 
is  not  for  me  to  say,  but  I  know  the  story  of  the 
picture,  and  he  seeks  you — day  and  night,  night 
and  day;  and  should  he  not  find  you,  death  will 
come  quickly." 

The  boy  listened,  his  eyes  aglow,  his  cheeks 
flushed,  drinking  in  the  words,  eager  to  spring  to 
his  feet  and  renew  his  search. 

"If  it  be  the  will  of  the  Madonna  that  thou 
shouldst  see  him  before  I,  wilt  thou  ask  of  him 
this  favor?  Say  to  him  it  is  I,  Tito,  who  ask  it: — 
that  he  will  not  go  to  his  room,  or  to  Joe's,  until 
I  have  seen  him." 

"What  is  wrong?"  asked  McGlennon. 

"That  I  cannot  tell  thee,"  answered  Tito,  "not 
now,  but  thou  shalt  know  after  I  have  seen  him. 
Tell  him  it  is  all  I  ask  of  him,  and  tell  him  that — 
that  I  love  him." 

His  tones  were  husky  and  McGlennon,  with  a 
father's  instinct,  noting  the  boy's  emotion,  re 
mained  silent.  He  thought  of  his  own  child,  her 
pathetic  devotion  in  the  ill-spent  years  that  had 
passed,  and  the  memories  sent  a  wave  of  tender 
ness  through  heart  and  brain.  His  eyes  moistened 
and  he  addressed  the  boy  with  added  gentleness: 

338 


TITO 

"Poor  Tito !  I  realize  what  you  feel.  Find  him, 
boy,  for  his  life  depends  on  your  success.  Come, 
it  is  time  for  me  to  return  to  work.  To-night  I 
shall  see  you  again  ?" 

"Yes.  Should  I  be  detained,  thou  wilt  know 
that  I  still  seek  him." 

For  three  days  and  three  nights  he  continued 
his  search,  but  he  could  find  no  trace  of  Vanburg. 
He  had  but  little  money  left  and,  with  what  re 
mained,  he  paid  for  a  week's  lodgings  in  advance. 
He  must,  at  least  during  the  day,  find  something 
to  do  to  earn  sufficient  for  his  needs,  yet,  though 
his  money  was  gone  he  had  no  fear,  for  should 
he  fail  to  find  work,  though  the  thought  was 
repugnant  to  him,  he  would  again  sing  the  silver 
pieces  out  of  the  pockets  of  his  countrymen,  for 
he  knew  where  an  affectionate  welcome  awaited 
him. 

Day  and  night  he  visited  Vanburg's  lodgings 
and  the  resorts  where  he  would  be  most  likely  to 
find  him,  but  failure  constantly  awaited  his  efforts. 
Discouraged,  he  would  return  to  the  cheap  lodg 
ing-house  where  he  slept,  refusing  McGlennon's 
hospitality,  and  the  fourth  night  of  his  fruitless 
search  he  went  to  bed  weary  and  disheartened. 

But  the  following  morning,  good  fortune  guided 
his  steps  toward  Vanburg's  squalid  room.  As  he 
neared  the  building  Pietro  was  descending  the 
steps,  and  paused  on  the  sidewalk  before  the 
entrance. 

Tito  was  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  some 

339 


TITO 

distance  away,  and  recognizing  his  grandimcle, 
quickly  entered  a  hallway,  the  door  of  which  was 
open.  He  argued,  and  with  sound  reasoning,  that 
should  the  old  man  discover  that  he  was  in  the 
country,  the  knowledge  would  drive  him  into  a 
frenzy.  The  thought  of  what  the  result  might 
have  been,  had  Pietro  been  successful  in  finding 
Vanburg,  for  an  instant  filled  him  with  terror; 
and  he  blamed  himself  for  not  having  kept  a  closer 
watch. 

Pietro  stood  on  the  pavement  for  some  mo 
ments,  apparently  uncertain  what  course  to  pursue, 
then  walked  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  the  Bowery. 
Hurrying  across  the  street,  the  boy  dashed  up  the 
stairs  and  knocked  at  the  door  of  Vanburg's  room. 
There  came  no  reply  and  he  pushed  the  door  open. 
No  one  was  within  and,  with  a  lighter  heart,  he 
quickly  descended  to  the  street  with  the  hope  of 
overtaking  Pietro ;  but  his  uncle  had  disappeared, 
and  Tito  resumed  his  weary  search. 

Noonday  found  him  tired  and  hungry,  but  he 
trudged  wearily  on.  He  had  eaten  nothing  since 
the  night  before,  and  he  paused  at  a  street  corner 
to  consider  his  prospects. 

"I  am  very  hungry,"  he  mused.  "Tito,  once 
thou  couldst  sing.  Think  thou  of  a  hot  dinner  and 
a  glass  of  wine — the  wine  of  thy  own  Italia,  and 
perhaps  thy  voice  will  return.  But  I  cannot  sing 
as  I  once  could,  aye,  that  I  know;  and  if  I  fail,  they 
will  say:  'Little  Devil,'  come  not  again  till  thou 
hast  found  thy  voice.  Ah,  the  world  is  all  alike. 

340 


TITO 

You  must  give  double  worth  for  what  it  is  pleased 
to  grant  to  you.  But  if  I  eat,  then  must  I  sing. 
I  like  it  not,  but  the  hot  soup — the  soup  I  must 
have." 

Wearily  he  turned  his  steps  in  the  direction  of 
the  cafe  in  the  Italian  quarter. 


341 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

AS  McGlennon  had  told  the  boy,  the  week 
following-  Tito's  sudden  departure  had  been 
to  Vanburg  a  week  bordering  on  madness. 
He  could  neither  sleep  nor  eat.  Drink  had  lost  its 
power  to  deaden  the  torture  that  each  day  in 
creased  as  his  search  for  Tito  grew  more  and  more 
hopeless,  turning  his  nights  into  a  living,  sleepless 
agony.  He  grew  morose,  sullen,  his  nerves  were 
on  edge,  his  wildly  staring  eyes  indicating  that  he 
had  reached  the  danger  point,  and  that  sleep  alone 
would  save  him  from  the  madness  that  wakefulness 
and  thoughts  of  the  boy  would  surely  bring.  It 
was  when  he  had  reached  this  stage,  that  McGlen 
non,  without  his  consent  or  knowledge,  called  in  a 
physician  and,  under  the  influence  of  powerful 
opiates,  he  was  kept  quiet  for  two  days  and  nights. 

Weak,  but  in  a  calmer  state,  he  again  took  up 
his  search,  daily  visiting  the  Italian  quarter,  believ 
ing  Tito  to  be  still  in  the  city,  trusting  to  chance 
to  meet  him  at  some  of  the  cafes  that  he  knew  the 
boy  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting. 

At  the  resort  where  Tito  and  Ned  Hollander 
had  met,  the  proprietor  had  talked  to  him  of  the 
boy,  telling  of  his  marvelous  voice,  and  of  his 
guests  who  daily  inquired  for  the  young  singer. 
So  each  day  found  Vanburg  seated  in  the  rear  of 

342 


TITO 

the  cafe,  hoping  always  that  Tito  would  again 
renew  his  visits,  trusting  to  chance  to  assist  him 
in  his  life  mission — to  find  the  boy. 

With  the  hope  that  he  would  return,  Vanburg 
still  retained  the  room  where  Tito  had  visited  him, 
though  he  seldom  went  there.  In  the  solitude  of 
the  night  he  seemed  to  hear  the  boy's  voice  speak 
ing  to  him ;  the  echo  of  his  songs  rang  on  the  still 
ness;  and  on  wall  and  ceiling  he  could  read  the 
words,  the  memento  that  Tito  had  left  behind: 
"She  who  painted  this  portrait  was  my  mother." 

The  very  quiet  of  the  place  seemed  to  woo  mad 
ness,  and  as  the  days  and  the  weeks  went  by,  so 
grew  his  dislike  and  fear,  and  he  spent  his  time 
roaming  about  the  city  or  passing  the  night  at 
some  cheap  hotel. 

Often  his  hopes  were  momentarily  raised  when, 
in  a  crowd,  he  would  see  some  boy  that,  in  his 
excited  state,  he  believed  to  be  Tito.  Then  would 
begin  a  chase,  at  times  lasting  the  distance  of  sev 
eral  blocks,  his  heart  beating  with  expectancy, 
his  fevered  imagination  endowing  some  stranger 
with  the  face  and  the  form  of  the  one  he  sought ; 
but  for  the  hundredth  time  he  met  only  disappoint 
ment,  to  be  followed  by  still  deeper  dejection. 

Rarely  he  ate  breakfast,  but  each  day,  before 
the  place  became  crowded,  that  he  might  not  miss 
Tito  should  he  return,  he  went  to  the  cafe  where 
the  boy  had  sung,  drinking  a  glass  of  wine  before 
ordering  lunch,  waiting  a  full  hour  or  longer  in  the 
hope  that  the  boy  would  return. 

Late  in  the  morning  of  the  day  when  Tito,  hav- 
'  343 


TITO 

ing  reached  the  end  of  his  resources,  decided  to 
visit  the  cafe,  Vanburg  was  irresistibly  drawn  to 
his  old  lodging's,  with  the  hope  that  in  his  absence 
the  boy  might  have  returned.  Many  times  he  had 
gone  there  on  the  same  errand,  only  to  find  that 
his  mind,  in  its  abnormal  condition,  his  fevered 
brain,  his  overwrought  emotions,  were  playing 
him  fantastic  tricks — leading  him  a  siren's  dance. 

Mounting  the  steps  to  the  outer  door  he  stopped 
abruptly.  "Good  God!"  he  muttered,  "I  cannot 
face  the  emptiness  of  that  room." 

As  quickly  as  he  had  come  he  turned  away. 

"He  is  not  here!  He  will  never  come  again. 
Sometime  he  will  return  to  the  cafe.  I  will  wait 
there  for  years  if  need  be." 

With  quick,  nervous  stride,  he  turned  west, 
closely  followed  by  Pietro  who,  day  and  night 
since  he  had  arrived  in  the  country  had  been 
watching  for  him. 

Though  Vanburg's  beard  completely  disguised 
his  face,  the  compact  form  and  springing  step  were 
all  that  was  needed  to  assure  Pietro  that  his  watch 
ing  and  waiting  were  at  last  rewarded;  and  when 
Vanburg  turned  from  the  door  the  Italian's  fea 
tures  lighted  up  with  unholy  joy. 

There  was  no  danger  that  Vanburg  would 
recognize  him  for,  during  his  life  in  Italy,  he  had 
seen  the  old  man  but  a  few  times,  and  notwith 
standing  the  scar,  which  once  seen  could  not  be 
easily  forgotten,  the  memory  of  Pietro  was  long 
since  dead. 

Gradually  the  Italian  gained  on  him,  his  eyes 
344 


TITO 

glowing  with  satisfaction,  his  hate  turned  to  joy; 
and  when  Vanburg  went  into  the  cafe  he  was 
almost  instantly  followed  by  the  Italian.  Upon 
entering  he  lingered  near  the  door,  to  allow  Van- 
burg  time  to  choose  a  seat  which,  as  was  his  cus 
tom,  he  selected  at  the  far  end  of  the  room. 

Slowly  and  with  an  air  of  indifference,  Pietro 
seated  himself  at  an  adjoining  table  between  his 
victim  and  the  entrance.  Ordering  wine,  he 
drained  the  glass  at  a  draught,  and  pushing  it  to 
the  waiter,  ordered  more. 

Vanburg  had  not  noticed  the  old  man — his  eyes 
were  on  the  door,  for  the  patrons,  well-to-do  Ital 
ians,  with  a  sprinkling  of  Americans  who  were 
fond  of  Italian  dishes,  were  coming  in  numbers, 
and  the  places  at  the  tables  were  being  rapidly 
filled. 

Again  and  again  did  Pietro  drink,  then  rising, 
took  a  seat  at  Vanburg's  table,  facing  him. 

"Hast  thou  forgotten  Bettina?"  asked  the  old 
man  abruptly. 

Vanburg,  with  a  start,  turned  his  eyes  to  the 
speaker,  whose  face  was  in  the  shadow.  Startled 
at  the  interruption  he  did  not  reply,  but  fixing  his 
glance  on  the  man  before  him,  looked  into  the 
eyes  in  which  hate  was  tempered  by  fierce,  vindic 
tive  joy. 

"And  the  child  thou  hast  always  believed  dead, 
but  that  lived  to  hate  thee — Bettina's  child !" 

Again  the  old  man  paused,  and  still  Vanburg 
remained  silent.  Not  a  muscle  of  his  features 
moved.  His  eyes,  fixed,  staring,  never  left  the 

345 


TITO 

ugly  face;  only  his  deep,  irregular  breathing  told 
that  he  was  moved,  that  the  old  man's  words  filled 
him  with  terror — terror  that  came  with  the  belief 
that  his  reason  was  crumbling,  that  what  he  heard 
was  a  return  of  the  nights  when,  alone  in  his  room, 
fantasies,  waking  dreams  and  visions  haunted  him. 

"Mio  Dio"  he  muttered  in  Italian,  instinctively 
dropping  into  the  language  which  the  old  man 
spoke,  "is  this  a  repetition  of  what  I  have  gone 
through  in  another  form?  Now,  someone,  whom 
I  have  never  before  seen,  talks  to  me  of  Bettina 
and  the  boy!" 

"With  thy  marriage  vow  there  was  another  oath 
recorded — that  thou  shouldst  suffer  for  having 
stolen  her  from  us.  Canst  thou  remember  the 
night  when  thou  didst  return  from  Paris  ?  She  was 
dying — our  Bettina !  She  forgot  that  we  lived  and, 
day  and  night,  when  she  was  conscious,  she  called 
for  thee.  Then  thou  earnest  and  we  told  thee  the 
child  was  dead." 

A  low  chuckle  followed  the  words.  Pietro  bent 
forward  over  the  table.  Gradually  his  passion  was 
awakening,  his  face  had  become  livid — only  the 
scar,  like  a  splash  of  fresh  blood,  stood  out  promi 
nently.  Still  Vanburg  remained  silent.  His  was 
an  ominous  calm — the  calm  of  feelings  held  in  re 
straint,  of  a  mind  the  sanity  of  which  is  being 
stretched  to  the  danger  point. 

A  pause  ensued  after  Pietro  had  finished  speak 
ing — the  old  man  noting  the  effect  of  his  words. 

"Say,"  said  Vanburg,  never  removing  his  glance 
from  the  face  before  him,  "are  you  some  fiend  in 

346 


TITO 

the  embodiment  of  flesh  that  hell  has  sent  to  tor 
ment  me?'' 

"Yes,"  answered  Pietro,  "that  am  I."  His  right 
hand  toyed  with  the  handle  of  the  knife  in  the 
pocket  of  his  coat.  "And  thou  hast  seen  thy  son, 
thine  and  Bettina's — Tito.  And  for  a  night  prayer 
he  curses  thee." 

Again  came  the  low,  chuckling  laugh.  His  eyes 
flashed  gleams  of  hate,  but  his  listener  did  not  see, 
for  Pietro's  growing  passion  carried  no  impression 
to  his  mind.  Sitting  inert,  motionless,  Vanburg 
heard  the  words  as  if  they  were  echoes  of  past 
years. 

Pietro  beckoned  to  the  waiter  to  fill  his  glass 
and,  until  he  returned,  sat  silent,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
Vanburg' s  face. 

Tito  had  entered  the  cafe.  Standing  near  the 
door,  he  was  met  with  a  roar  of  welcome,  and  a 
flush  of  pleasure  mounted  to  his  cheeks. 

"Ah,  they  have  not  forgotten  me !" 

"Forgotten  thee,  'Little  Devil/  " — it  was  the 
proprietor  who  spoke,  "forgotten  thee !  Each  day 
have  my  guests  asked  me,  'Where  is  Tito?'  and 
always  I  have  replied :  'He  will  come  to-morrow/ 
It  has  been  long  since  thou  wert  here.  If  thou 
wilt  come  each  day  and  sing,  thou  canst  name  any 
price  that  I  am  able  to  pay,  and  it  shall  be  thine. 
What  sayest  thou  ?" 

"Wait,"  said  the  boy,  "perhaps  I  have  for 
gotten." 

"Drink  this,"  urged  the  proprietor,  noting  the 

347 


TITO 

drawn  look  on  the  boy's  face,  "thou  art  tired.  It 
is  Madeira,  and  of  my  private  stock." 

The  boy  drank,  then  indicated  the  musicians 
with  a  nod  of  his  head. 

"Tell  them  to  play  the  songs  of  Italia,"  he  said. 

In  the  rear  of  the  room,  Pietro  was  saying  to  the 
man  who  heard  and  did  not  understand,  for 
he  sat  as  one  in  a  stupor — "And  thy  son  grew — 
grew  to  hate  thee,  his  own  father,  and  he  had 
sworn  that  before  he  received  his  first  communion, 
thy  life  would  answer  for  the  dead  Bettina's." 

His  hand  grasped  the  hilt  of  the  knife,  and 
trembling  with  passion,  he  leaned  across  the  table. 

The  first  note  from  the  orchestra  struck  upon 
their  hearing, — soft,  pathetic,  ending  in  a  full,  har 
monious  chord. 

"But  thy  dirty  blood,"  hissed  Pietro,  half  rising, 
"made  a  coward  of  him,  and  it  was  left  for  me — " 

Tito's  voice  rang  out  full  and  clear,  in  a  song 
that,  times  unnumbered,  had  thrilled  Pietro  to  his 
finger  tips.  A  look  of  doubt,  consternation,  terror, 
swept  across  the  old  man's  features;  the  fingers 
that  held  the  knife  relaxed,  his  hand  fell  to  his  side 
and,  forgetting  his  purpose,  he  turned  slowly 
round.  Grasping  the  back  of  his  chair,  he  glared 
at  the  singer,  at  first  believing  him  to  be  an  appa 
rition  then,  as  though  the  boy's  purpose  were 
divined  by  him,  with  a  cry  of  a  wounded  beast  he 
sank  into  his  seat. 

Vanburg,  at  the  first  sound  of  the  voice,  had 
sprung  to  his  feet,  joy  leaping  to  his  heart,  trans 
forming  his  features,  lighting  up  his  eyes  with  their 

348 


TITO 

old-time  fire,  and  in  appearance,  it  seemed  as 
if  ten  years  had  been  shorn  from  his  life.  Above 
the  music  and  Pietro's  despairing  cry  his  voice 
rang  out : 

"Tito !" 

The  song  ceased.  Quickly  the  boy  came,  for 
only  death  would  he  have  paused. 

"My  father!"  It  was  his  heart  that  spoke,  but 
the  words,  like  a  knife  thrust,  struck,  knell-like, 
upon  the  ears  of  Pietro,  chanting  the  death  of  his 
last  hope. 

The  boy  would  look  upon  him  with  hate,  with 
loathing;  and  the  love  he  craved,  the  love  he  had 
waited  for  through  the  years  since  he  had  held 
him  in  his  arms  as  a  babe,  was  for  the  man  who 
had  robbed  them  of  Bettina.  With  the  cry  of  an 
enraged  animal  he  was  on  his  feet,  the  knife  flash 
ing  above  his  head,  his  features  distorted  with 
passion. 

He  sprang  towards  Vanburg  who,  unconscious 
of  his  danger,  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  boy,  ready  to 
embrace  him,  paid  no  heed  to  the  old  man. 

Not  so  Tito.  Seeing  the  gleam  of  the  steel,  rec 
ognizing  Pietro's  cry,  while  the  knife  was  yet  up 
lifted,  with  a  catlike  spring  he  threw  himself  upon 
the  old  man,  winding  his  arms  about  his  neck. 
Fear,  love  for  his  father,  lent  him  strength;  and 
the  Italian,  trying  to  shake  him  off,  made  a  lunge 
at  Vanburg  as  he  sprang  to  the  boy's  assistance. 
But  the  blow  fell  short — the  blade  penetrating 
Tito's  clothing. 

"Pietro,"  cried  the  boy,  "Pietro,  thou  shalt  not 
349 


TITO 

harm  him !  Kill  me,  Pietro !  He  is  my  father  and 
I  love  him." 

With  an  oath  he  threw  the  boy  from  him. 
Again  he  raised  the  knife  and,  like  a  flash,  it  found 
his  own  heart,  buried  to  the  hilt,  and  he  fell  for 
ward  on  the  table, — dead. 

Consternation  reigned,  but  no  hand  could  inter 
pose,  for  it  had  been  a  matter  of  only  a  few  seconds 
from  the  time  Tito  had  sprung  between  Vanburg 
and  the  enraged  Italian. 

They  laid  him  on  the  floor,  his  face  horrible  to 
look  at;  the  eyes  glaring,  the  blood-red  scar 
standing  out  with  revolting  clearness. 

"Tito,"  said  Vanburg  tenderly,  with  his  arm 
about  the  boy,  "my  son,  my  own  Tito,  twice  hast 
thou  risked  thy  life  for  me.  Thou  wilt  not  leave 
me  again,  my  Tito." 

"No,"  answered  the  boy.  He  could  say  no 
more. 

Ned  Hollander,  who  had  entered  the  cafe  as 
Tito  had  ceased  singing,  held  out  his  hand  which 
Vanburg  grasped. 

"Vannie,  even  in  the  presence  of  a  tragedy,  I 
am  glad  to  see  you.  And  Tito!  Tell  me  what  it 
all  means,  Van." 

"The  boy  is  my  son,"  answered  Vanburg. 

For  a  moment  Hollander  looked  at  him  in 
amazement. 

"Then  say  no  more,  Vannie,  take  the  boy  and 
go  away.  It  is  no  place  for  him.  I  will  attend  to 
everything.  Is  he — that  on  the  floor — " 

"He  is  the  boy's  granduncle." 

35° 


TITO 

"That's  enough,"  Hollander  replied.  ''Leave 
everything  to  me.  By  the  way,  where  can  I  find 
you?" 

Vanburg  wrote  his  address  on  a  card.  It  was 
the  lodging-room  where  Tito  had  visited  him. 

''You  will  find  me  at  this  address,"  he  said, 
handing  the  card  to  Hollander.  "If  there  is  any 
thing  I  can  do — 

"No.  I  will  attend  to  everything.  Go  with  the 
boy." 

Together  Tito  and  his  father  went  out.  They 
did  not  speak  for  some  minutes,  for  the  tragedy 
had  made  a  deep  impression  on  the  boy,  and  his 
dislike  and  fear  of  Pietro  had,  when  he  had  seen 
him  dead  on  the  floor,  turned  into  a  great  pity, 
and  the  ready  tears  glistened  on  his  eyelashes. 

"Tito,"  spoke  his  father,  "it  was  Pietro  who  gave 
me  the  final  proof  that  thou  art  my  son.  When  I 
said  to  thee  that  I  had  no  son,  Tito,  it  was  because 
they  had  told  me  thou  wert  dead — with  thy 
mother." 

"I  knew  that  thou  couldst  do  no  wrong,"  said 
the  boy  gently.  "But  when  thou  hadst  said  thou 
hadst  no  son — " 

"Ah,  my  boy,  I  can  judge  what  thy  feelings 
were.  But  that  time  has  past,  as,  thank  God,  has 
the  old  life.  From  to-day  thy  father  begins  life 
anew.  We  will  bid  goodby  to  the  days  of  sorrow, 
but  we  will  not  forget,  for  did  they  not  give  to  me 
my  son?" 

Together  they  entered  the  room  that  to  Van- 
burg  had  been  the  scene  of  much  suffering;  but 


TITO 

now  a  holy  joy  filled  both  heart  and  mind  to  com 
pleteness.  Whatever  degradation  the  past  years 
had  brought  to  him,  whatever  of  sorrow,  shame, 
humiliation,  was  forgotten  in  this  great  moment 
of  happiness.  Pride,  the  light  of  filial  love,  flashed 
from  his  eyes,  transforming  his  face  until  line  and 
wrinkle  disappeared,  and  in  lightness  of  heart,  he 
seemed  the  Vanburg  of  fifteen  years  before.  His 
step  was  elastic,  his  voice  cheery,  and  he  set  about 
putting  the  room  in  condition,  demanding  of  the 
boy,  meantime,  what  he  could  do  to  add  to  his 
comfort. 

And  Tito — it  was  as  though  he  had  returned  to 
his  home  after  a  long  absence;  for  it  was  here,  in 
this  room,  barren  and  cheerless,  that  the  first  kind 
ness,  the  first  tenderness,  that  had  ever  entered  his 
young  life,  had  given  birth  to  a  love  that  now  made 
his  heart  overflow.  Watching  his  father  move 
about  the  room  with  lithe,  springing  step,  as,  to 
add  a  touch  of  comfort  and  homelikeness,  he  cov 
ered  the  rickety  table  with  a  newspaper,  the  boy 
laughed  gleefully.  His  father  smiled  and  shook 
his  finger  at  him. 

"You  shall  remain  here,  my  Tito,  while  I  fetch 
the  necessaries  for  a  banquet — for  to-day  we 
feast." 

Tito's  laugh  followed  the  sound  of  his  father's 
footsteps  down  the  stairs. 

When  he  was  alone,  the  boy  walked  about  the 
room.  What  happiness  was  his,  what  youthful, 
delirious  joy!  The  wealth  of  all  the  world  could 
not  furnish  such.  True,  they  were  poor,  this  won- 

352' 


TITO 

derful  father  and  he,  but  what  of  that !  Were  they 
not  strong  ?  And  they  could  work !  And  this  bar 
ren,  cheerless  room  was  grander  to  him  than  any 
of  the  palaces  of  his  own  Italia.  Italia — yes,  he 
and  his  father  would  return  to  his  own  country, 
and  he  would  be  an  artist — as  his  mother  had  been. 
And  he  would  sing,  and  with  the  money — 

The  entrance  of  Vanburg  interrupted  his  castle- 
building,  and  together  they  ate  of  the  abundance 
his  father  had  procured. 

"To-day,  my  son,  is  the  beginning  of  a  new  life. 
No  more  dissipation,  no  more  of  Death  House 
Joe's,  no  more  of  the  hopeless  nights  of  misery. 
To-day  nothing  but  thanksgiving,  then  work,  yes, 
work — the  harder  the  better, — and  a  determina 
tion  to  succeed,  that  my  boy,  my  Tito,  may  have 
a  future.  Think  thou  that  thy  father  is  too  old  to 
begin  all  over,  to  conquer  in  the  new  life  that 
begins  to-day?" 

"Old!"  was  Tito's  scoffing  reply.  "Did  I  not 
see  thee  stand  before  the  thieves?  And  how  they 
fell  before  thy  blows !  And  I,  too,  shall  work.  I 
shall  paint  as  my  mother  did,  and  I  shall  be  great, 
— the  good  artist  in  dear  Florence  has  so  told  me." 

At  the  mention  of  his  mother  a  soft  light  stole 
into  Vanburg's  eyes ;  rising,  he  laid  his  hand  gently 
on  his  son's  head,  and  pressed  his  cheek  to  the 
boy's,  which  glowed  with  the  warmth  of  his  young 
blood.  Drawing  from  his  pocket  Bettina's  portrait 
of  the  Madonna,  he  held  it  so  that  the  light  fell 
upon  the  painting.  Neither  spoke,  but  Tito  took 
it  reverently  in  his  hand  and  touched  the  canvas 

353 


TITO 

with  his  lips.  With  a  sigh  Vanburg  placed  it  on 
the  mantel,  then  together  they  talked  of  the  future. 

The  father,  firm  in  the  belief  that  Tito  would 
understand,  told  him  of  his  grandfather,  of  the 
cause  that  prompted  him  to  voluntarily  relinquish 
his  position  in  life,  of  the  breath  of  suspicion  that 
had  been  cast  upon  his  honor,  of  his  father's  regret 
when  he  discovered  the  wrong  he  had  done  him, 
and  his  many  attempts  to  affect  a  reconciliation. 
Then,  in  a  voice  that  faltered,  he  continued : 

"I  cannot  return  and  resume  the  position  in  life 
that  was  mine,  but  thy  grandfather  would  welcome 
my  son,  my  Tito — " 

"Without  theef" 

Tito  sprang  to  his  feet.  The  look  he  cast  at  his 
father  was  one  of  sorrowful  reproach. 

"Dost  thou,"  he  exclaimed  with  a  stifled  sob, 
"think  so  poorly  of  the  'Little  Devil?'  ' 

There  was  a  touch  of  bitterness  in  the  tone; 
accusation  in  the  eyes  that  met  his  father's. 

"I  am  thinking  only  of  thy  future,"  his  father 
replied,  but  his  heart  leaped  with  new-found  de 
light,  and  he  drew  the  boy  gently  to  him.  Tito  did 
not  speak,  for,  though  his  father  thought  only  of 
what  would  be  best  for  him,  the  boy  was  deeply 
pained.  For  a  few  moments  the  only  sound  was  of 
someone  mounting  the  stairs  with  unsteady  step 
that  halted  on  the  landing.  A  short  pause  was 
followed  by  a  rap  on  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  called  Vanburg. 

He  did  not  move  from  his  seat,  but,  with  his  arm 
around  Tito,  awaited  the  entrance  of  their  visitor. 

354 


TITO 

Slowly  the  door  opened,  and  the  tall,  stately 
figure  of  the  elder  Vanburg  appeared  in  the  aper 
ture.  He  stood  motionless  for  several  seconds  to 
accustom  his  eyes  to  the  dim  light  within,  then  en 
tered  the  room  and  softly  closed  the  door  behind 
him.  He  looked  what  he  was,  the  born  aristocrat. 
His  hair  was  snow-white:  his  face  almost  livid  in 
its  pallor.  The  eyes  were  sunken,  but,  as  he  recog 
nized  his  son,  they  took  on  an  expression  that  was 
pathetic.  Notwithstanding  his  years,  his  form  was 
erect,  the  poise  of  the  head  proclaiming  the  pride 
of  the  Vanburg  race — an  unconscious  haughtiness 
which,  even  in  Tito,  was  wont  to  make  Mother 
Malenotti  rage.  With  outstretched  hand  he  took  a 
step  toward  his  son,  and  the  movement,  the  gest 
ure,  spoke  more  eloquently  in  supplication,  regret, 
than  could  mortal  tongue. 

His  son's  heart  was  filled  with  a  great  pity  and, 
releasing  Tito,  he  strode  to  his  father's  side,  grasp 
ing  the  outstretched  hand  in  his  own.  Neither 
spoke,  but  the  son  looked  into  the  moist  eyes  that 
mutely  voiced  the  old  man's  appeal. 

Ten  years  had  passed  since  father  and  son  had 
seer  each  other,  years  that  for  them  had  been  filled 
with  misery  and  heartache;  for  each,  in  his  own 
way,  had  experienced  all  the  pangs  that  loneliness 
and  loveless  years  had  the  power  to  give.  And 
now,  after  the  years  of  misunderstanding,  of  use 
less  regrets,  of  unavailing  remorse,  and  pride  that 
had  been  crushed  and  humbled  by  suffering,  they 
met  in  this  squalid  room.  What  a  conflict  of 
emotion  was  theirs !  The  moist  eye,  the  trembling 

355 


TITO 

lip,  the  husky  voice,  the  faltering  words  they  could 
not  utter — sorrow,  repentance,  love,  struggling  to 
find  expression  that  only  a  grasp  of  the  hand  and 
an  embrace  could  voice,  followed  by  a  sob  from  the 
old  man  as,  with  his  hand  in  that  of  his  son,  he 
stood  trembling,  his  eyes  pleading  for  the  forgive 
ness  that  he  dare  not  ask. 

And  the  son?  Perhaps  the  regret  that  surged 
through  heart  and  brain  as  he  waited  for  his 
father  to  speak,  in  a  measure  wiped  out  the  years 
of  folly ;  and,  as  he  noted  the  lines  and  the  furrows 
that  time  had  added  to  the  wrinkled  face,  a  sense 
of  shame  and  of  sorrow  swept  over  him.  But  the 
years  could  not  be  recalled.  Time  had  left  its  im 
print  on  their  lives  as  it  had  on  their  features.  The 
past  was  dead ;  the  future  held  out  hope  that  good 
would  come  when  the  scars  had  healed. 

Tito  had  remained  standing,  his  eyes,  glistening 
with  sympathetic  tears,  riveted  on  the  face  of  his 
grandfather.  Mingled  awe  and  pride  was  in  the 
look ;  but  the  boy  was  quite  sure  that  he  would  be 
fond  of  the  stately  old  man  who  appeared  to  love 
his  father  dearly,  and  this,  the  boy  mentally  af 
firmed,  proved  him  worthy  of  his,  Tito's,  distin 
guished  consideration.  He  wanted  to  embrace  his 
grandfather  and  waited  quietly  until  he  would  be 
noticed. 

"Father,"  said  the  younger  Vanburg  in  a  tender 
voice,  "there  is  one  whose  love  will,  I  trust,  atone 
for  my  errors,  one  whom  you  will  love, — my  son 
Tito." 

356 


TITO 

The  boy  came  quickly,  his  hands  extended  to  his 
grandfather. 

The  old  man  held  him  close,  his  smile,  his  em 
brace,  all  that  was  needed  to  seal  the  compact  of 
love ;  and  from  that  instant  Tito  paid  homage  to 
his  stately  grandfather,  "who,"  he  later  confided  to 
his  father,  "would  be  a  duke  in  his  own  Italia." 

Long  and  earnestly  they  talked :  —  the  elder 
Vanburg  pleading  for  his  son's  return;  the  son 
firm  in  his  resolve  to  begin  anew  the  battle  of  life, 
to  earn  a  position  by  his  own  effort. 

"  I  have  destroyed,"  he  said,  regret  in  his  tones, 
"whatever  claim  I  once  possessed  to  recognition. 
My  son  agrees  with  me  —  we  must  carve  out  our 
own  destiny.  The  world  that  I  knew  has  forgotten 
me,  why  should  I  demand  of  it  to  remember  that 
I  once  lived  ? " 

"  But  your  son,  Horace  ?  " 

"  It  is  his  right  to  choose.  I  have  explained  all 
to  him.  He  will  cast  his  lot  with  mine." 

Tears  glistened  in  the  old  man's  eyes,  and  the 
look  he  directed  at  Tito  was  of  pathetic  entreaty. 

After  a  moment's  silence  Vanburg  asked  : 

"  How  did  you  discover  my  address  ? " 

"From  young  Hollander,"  his  father  replied. 
"  He  and  his  sister  came  with  me.  They  are  wait 
ing  below,  in  the  carriage." 

Vanburg  flushed.  "  I  will  speak  to  them,"  he 
said,  and  went  out. 

"  Tito,  my  boy,  come  to  me." 

The  old  man's  trembling  hands  were  out 
stretched,  and  Tito  sprang  to  his  embrace.  Before 

357 


TITO 

his  son  the  elder  Vanburg  had  controlled  his  feel 
ings,  but,  alone  with  the  boy,  his  enforced  calm 
gave  place  to  a  flood  of  emotion,  and  with  his 
arms  about  Tito,  tears,  that  he  made  no  effort  to 
repress,  ran  down  his  withered  cheek.  No  longer 
was  he  the  banker,  the  rich  aristocrat,  the  repre 
sentative  of  ancestors  whose  arrogant  pride  was 
their  dominant  characteristic.  He  was  again  a 
child,  and  Tito's  heart  responded  to  his  appeal  for 
pity,  for  sympathy,  for  love — his  tears  mingling 
with  those  of  his  grandfather  as,  with  the  withered 
cheek  pressed  to  his  own,  he  made  a  manly  effort 
to  control  his  emotion. 

"Tito,  boy,"  pleaded  his  grandfather,  "I  am  an 
old  man.  But  few  years  remain  for  me.  You  love 
your  father?" 

"Ah.  yes,"  came  the  quick  reply. 

"Think,  then,  of  what  your  life  would  be  should 
you  lose  him." 

The  terror  of  the  thought  shone  in  Tito's  eyes. 

"Will  you  then  think  of  me,  Tito,  of  my  lonely 
life?  Will  you  remember  your  grandfather  in  a 
great  house,  lonely,  sorrowful,  waiting  through  the 
years  for  his  son's  return?  You  could  love  me, 
boy?" 

"Ah,"  exclaimed  Tito  with  warmth,  "already  I 
love  thee." 

"Will  you  plead  with  your  father  for  me,  Tito? 
Will  you  remember  the  father  who  is  always  wait 
ing,  watching,  for  him?  Ah,  boy,  I  can  read  in 
your  eyes  nothing  but  love,  but  gentleness.  In 
your  face  I  can  see  the  character  of  the  Vanburg 

353 


TITO 

race,  but  your  beauty,  the  tenderness  in  those  eyes 
are  your  mother's.  Remember  her,  boy,  and  be 
kind  to  your  grandfather,  who  will  love  you  as  she 
would  have  loved  you." 

It  needed  but  the  mention  of  his  mother  and 
Tito  surrendered,  his  heart  going  out  without  con 
dition  or  reservation  to  his  grandfather. 

"Trust  me,"  said  Tito,  "I  promise  he  will  come 
to  thee." 

In  an  excess  of  feeling,  even  of  elation,  the  old 
man  embraced  him.  Then  as  Vanburg  returned, 
the  glance  that  they  exchanged  sealed  their  com 
pact. 

"I  will  trust  all  to  you,  Tito,"  whispered  his 
grandfather. 

"I  will  keep  my  promise,"  was  the  reply. 

After  an  affectionate  leave-taking,  a  whispered 
word  to  Tito  as  he  embraced  him,  the  elder  Van- 
burg  departed. 


359 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

AFTER  his  father  was  gone  Vanburg  was 
depressed.      He    could    not    entertain    the 
thought  of  a  return  to  the  home  that  he  had 
left,  but  none  knew  better  than  he  that  he  owed  a 
duty  to  his  son.    He  accused  himself  of  selfishness 
in  wishing  to  keep  Tito  with  him,  for  he  knew  that 
his  son,  should  he  go  to  his  grandfather,  would 
receive  every  advantage  that  money  could  procure. 
But  he  was  human,  and  the  thought  of  a  separation 
from  the  boy  he  could  not  entertain. 

Tito,  meanwhile,  was  planning  his  line  of 
attack.  His  quickly  changing  moods  caused  his 
father  to  smile,  but  he  could  not  quite  understand 
him.  He  wras  now  tender,  again  jubilant,  hum 
ming  the  bar  of  an  Italian  song,  only  to  stop  sud 
denly  and  demand  of  his  father  to  recite  again  and 
again  their  plans  of  the  future.  His  diplomacy 
was  not  deep.  Suddenly  he  stood  before  his 
father. 

"I  think  I  shall  love  my  grandpapa!"  he  said. 
"He  is  very  nice !" 

Vanburg  looked  into  the  flushed  face. 

"Would  you  like  to  live  with  him  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  answered  Tito,  promptly. 

The  answer  struck  upon  Vanburg's  ear  like  a 
knell.  The  words  sank  into  his  heart.  He  had 
found  his  son  only  to  lose  him. 

360 


TITO 

"If  you  wish  it,  Tito,  you  shall  live  with  him." 
Vanbtirg  steadied  his  voice  with  an  effort. 

"Aye,  true,"  answered  the  boy,  "but  it  shall  be 
when  my  father  comes  with  me.  If  thou  hadst 
waited  through  the  years  for  thy  Tito,  the  'Little 
Devil/  and  thou  hadst  begged  him  to  come  to 
thee,  and  he  had  answered  'no,'  what  wouldst  thy 
heart  have  said  ?  And  if  thou  wert  old  and  alone, 
sorrowful,  waiting  for  thy  Tito  to  return,  think  of 
thy  feelings  when  he  would  come  to  thee  and  say : 
'Yes,  it  is  I,  Tito,  who  has  come  back  to  thee/  for 
it  is  that  thou  hast  said  to  me  when  thou  wert  ill 
and  I  came  here.  And  thou  wert  glad  that  the 
'Little  Devil'  had  not  forgotten  thee.  Dost  thou 
remember?" 

"Remember,  boy?    Yes,  ah  God,  yes!" 

"It  is  thus  that  my  grandpapa  feels  while  he 
watches  and  waits  for  thee.  Even  now  he  may  be 
sitting  at  the  window,  watching  each  one  that 
passes,  saying:  'He  will  come,  I  know  he  will 
come/  and  when  thou  had  gone  to  see  thy  friends, 
and  we  were  alone,  what  thinkest  thou  he  said?" 

Vanburg's  only  reply  was  a  glance  into  the 
pleading  eyes. 

"  'That  though  I  was  of  his  race,  I  had  the 
beauty  of  my  mother — her  eyes,  her — her  tender 
ness.'  Ah,  for  that  did  I  love  him.  And  when 
thou  didst  tell  me  that  thou  hadst  no  son,  and  I 
ran  away  that  I  might  not  fulfil  the  vow  I  had 
made,  because  I  loved  thee,  canst  thou  know  the 
sorrow  and  the  shame  that  was  mine?  And  I 

361 


TITO 

prayed  to  the  Madonna  to  give  the  'Little  Devil' 
a  new  heart  arid  to  save  thee." 

Grasping  his  father's  hand  in  both  his  own,  he 
continued  passionately: 

"Come,  come  to  my  grandfather,  he  is  waiting 
for  us,  and  he  will  be  glad  as  thou  wert  when  thy 
Tito,  the  'Little  Devil/  came  back  to  thee. 
Come." 

Without  a  word  Vanburg  took  his  hat,  that  lay 
on  the  table,  and  taking  the  portrait  from  its  place 
on  the  mantel,  he  put  it  in  his  pocket  and  they 
went  out ;  not,  however,  before  Tito  had  flashed  a 
last  look  of  mingled  regret  and  joy  about  the  bar 
ren  room  that  he  loved  so  well. 

Slowly  they  walked  on,  Vanburg  silent  and 
thoughtful,  Tito,  in  his  anxiety  to  hasten,  keeping 
a  pace  or  two  in  advance  of  his  father. 

After  more  than  an  hour's  walk  they  turned 
from  the  avenue — Vanburg  indicating,  with  a  nod 
of  his  head,  the  house  that  would  be  Tito's  future 
home. 

"See,"  said  Tito,  excitedly,  "is  it  not  as  I  told 
thee?  My  grandfather  is  at  the  window  waiting 
for  us."  Then  with  the  utmost  nonchalance:  "I 
told  him  we  would  come." 

Vanburg  smiled. 

"You  young  rascal,"  he  replied,  "I  am  glad  you 
did." 

They  mounted  the  flight  of  stone  steps  quickly, 
but  before  they  could  ring  the  bell  the  door  swung 
open  and  they  entered. 

The  hours  go  by,  and  from  the  servants'  quar- 
362 


TITO 

ters  below,  to  the  top  of  the  house,  lights  blaze 
through  the  windows.  A  carriage  stops  before  the 
door  and  Madge  Hollander  and  her  brother  alight 
and  enter.  Through  the  uncurtained  window  we 
can  see  the  elder  Vanburg  talking  with  Ned  Hol 
lander,  who  had  been  an  active  accomplice  in 
arranging  the  meeting  between  father  and  son. 
Tito  is  standing  in  the  rear  of  the  room  smiling 
and  happy,  beside  him  his  father  and  Madge — on 
their  features  the  contentment  of  perfect  love. 

The  night  shadows  deepen.  Across  the  face  of 
the  refulgent  moon — like  fragments  of  a  disrupted 
kingdom  of  the  clouds — float  seas  of  shimmering 
splendor,  the  veiled  stars  piercing  their  misty 
depths  writh  shafts  of  mellow  light.  Phantom  sail, 
unrigged,  unmanned,  sweep  past  the  mystic  islands 
of  the  night,  the  foam -lashed  cloud-waves  touch 
ing  their  virgin  peaks.  Hurled  from  their  awful 
height  the  wrecks  of  worlds  plunge  downward — 
down  through  vales  of  death,  through  never  end 
ing  space  into  the  realm  of  the  Unknown. 

They  are  gone — the  limpid  rays  of  the  chiding 
moon  following  the  receding  hosts.  Slowly  the 
shadows  lift,  melting  away  before  the  glory  of  the 
star-lit  heavens:  the  sighing  breezes  of  the  night 
whispering  their  secrets  until  the  imagination  is 
aflame  with  the  mysteries  of  an  unpeopled  world. 

Thus  do  lights  and  shadows  flit  across  our  lives. 
Without,  the  heart  of  Man  throbs  responsive  to  a 
settled  calm.     Into  the  lives  of  those  we  are  leav 
ing  has  come  the  glory  of  the  wondrous  night. 
THE  END. 

363 


Mason's  Corner  Folks. 


•The  Village -Gossips  wondered  who 'he  was, 
'What  he  was,  what  he  came  for,  aad  bow 
Ion?  be  intended  to  stay." 


"THE  BEST  NEW 
ENGLAND STORY 
EVER  WRITTEN" 

A  SIMPLE  LOVE  TALE 

OF  COUNTRY  LIFE 
M<  with** 

A   WEALTH   OF 

NEW    ENGLAND 

VILLAGE  CHAR« 

ACTER,     SCENES 

AND    INCIDENTS^ 

FULL    OF    HOMELY   HUMAN 

INTEREST. 

^'OHHHIHHHHRBBHaBEKVHBnBBnaHBSBSnBSBMBJERBi  ? 

BY 


HONF.ST 

EXPRESSIONS 

FROM  THE 

PRESS  OF 

AMERICA  s 
Boston  Evetii  tig  Tran 
script. 

"Bright,  fresh  and 
breezy,  au  absolutely 
true  picture  of  New 
England  life  and  char 
acter.  By  all  means 
read  QUINCY  ADAMS 
SAWYER." 

Philadelphia     Even 
ing  Telegraph. 

"  It  is  as  sweetly  nat 
ural  as  the  breath  of 
the  fields.  The  good 
folks  who  move  in  its 
pages  are  real,  and 
their  honest  humor  and 
every-day  views  of  life 
are  cheerful." 

The   Living  Church, 
Milwaukee. 

"We  predict  the  book 
will  be  more  alive  in 
five  years  than  most 
of  the  books  of  to-day; 
for  it  has  tenderness, 
and  has  sympathy,  and 
has  life." 

Kansas  City  Times. 

"  It  is  a  New  England 
story,  but  it  is  so  truly 
a  human  nature  picture 
that  it  fits  anywnerein 
the  United  States." 

New  York  Journal. 
"  It  is  full  of  interesting 
incidents,  quaint  say 
ings,  healthy  sentiment 
and  a  certain  irresisti 
ble  humor  that  makes  it 
a  book  that  will  appeal 
to  readers  who  are 
tired  of  the  conven 
tional  society  and  the 
so-called  historical 
novel." 
Nashville  American. 

"It  is  by  long  odds 
the  simplest  and  truest 
picture  of  New  England 
life  and  character  ever 
penned." 

New  York  World. 

"There  is  no  story 
with  a  more  vigorous 
swing  of  homely, 
healthful  life." 


CHARLES    FELTON  PIDGIN  THE  AUTHOR  OF 

"  BLENNERHASSETT." 
Bound  In  Cloth,  $0.75  and  $1.oO.  At  all  Bookaollrsrs 

C-  M.  CLARK  PUBLISHING  COMPANY,  BOSTON 


The  Most  Talked  About  Book  of  the  Day 

BLENNERHASSETT 

A  THRILLING   ROMANCE 

"The  narrative  it  well  sustained,  the  style  vigorous  and  attractive,  and 
the  situations  are  so  intelligently  managed  and  humorously  connected,  that  it 
is  with  regret  that  the  reader  lays  down  the  book  and  contemplates  the 
finit." — New  Orleant  Picayune^  Sept.  ijt 


"The  inci 
dents  of  the  tale 
are  intensely 
dramatic,  and 
the  pictures  by 
C.  H  Stephens 
are  among  the 
most  striking 
ever  given  to 
any  historical 
novel." 
Boston  Globe, 
October  i. 

At  All 

Booksellers. 

Bound  in 

Blue  Silk 

Cloth. 

Gilt  Top. 


"  Throughout 
the  clever  chain 
of  the  events  of 
Aaron  Burr's 
dramatic  1  i  f  e 
runs  the  thread 
of  a  unique,  ove 
story — a  golden 
thread  that 
gives  its  gleam 
to  sombre  reali 
ties.  A  brave 
book  and  a 
story  forcefully 
and  clearly 
told."  Chicago 
Record-Herald, 
Sept.  28" 
12  FULL-PAGE 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
PRICE, 


BY  CHARLES  FELTON  PIDGIN 


The  Author  of 

QUINCY    ADAMS   SAWYER 

Both  these  Volumes  Issued  in  popular  cloth-bound  editions, 
fully  illustrated,  at  75  cents. 


C.     M.     CLARK     PUBLISHING      COMPANY.      BOSTON. 


"  He  has  told  a  strong,   honest  story  and 
told  it  well."  —BROOKLYN  EAGLE. 

"  A  book  of  uncommon  cleverness." 

—  BOSTON  GLOBE. 


HESTER 
BLAIR 


THE  ROMANCE  OP  A  COUNTRY  GIRL 
...  BY ... 

WILLIAM  HENRY  CARSON 

A  BOOK  YOU  WILL 
HEAR  ABOUT.  READ. 
AND  TALK  ABOUT 

HESTER   BLAIR   is   a   sweet  and   lovable 
character  though  a  puzzling  one    ....... 

Attractively  Bound  in  Red  Silk 
Cloth  and  Gold,  Gilt  Top 
ILLUSTRATED  $1.50 

C.  M.  CLARK  PUBLISHING  COMPANY.  BOSTON 


Miss 


BY 
DWICHT    TILTON. 


Petticoats 


(MOH 


Coeua) 


N.  Y.  TIMES  SATURDAY    REVIEW, 

JUNE    14,    1902. 

"  From   the   moment    when    Agatha 
Renier  makes  her   appearance    'swaying 
like  a  scarlet  vine'   to  the  bridle  of  old 
Mrs.    Copeland's   maddened  horses 
and      stopping     their     headlong 
progress,     the   reader    has    a 
right   to   expect   marvelous 
developments.     And    in 
this     he    is     not 
disappointed 


NASHVILLE   AMERICAN 
MAY   22. 

"Here  is  a  tale  of  modern 
life  to  make  you  hold  your 
breath  over  one    episode  and 
wonder  what  is  coming  next.    It 
is  an  American  novel  full  of  inter 
est  and  brightness,    and    so  full  of 
action    that   the  incidents  fairly  step 
on    each    other's  heels." 
SEVEN  BEAUTIFUL  ILLUSTRATIONS  IN  COLORS. 

Handsomely  Bound,  Price  $1.50.    At  all  Booksellers 
C.  M.  CLARK  PUBLISHING  CO.,  BOSTON,  MASS. 


THE 


CLIMAX 

Or,  WHAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 

By  CHARLES  FBLTON  PIDQIN 

Author  of  BLENNERHASSETT  and 
QUINCY   ADAMS  SAWYER 

Attractively  Bound 

Illustrated  by  C.  H.  STEPHENS 

PRICE,  $1.5O 


This  is  not  an  historical  novel  in  any  sense  of  the  word. 
It  is  a  fascinating  romance  with  Aaron  Burr  as  the  central 
figure.  The  author  makes  of  Aaron  Burr  an  American 
musketeer — a  sort  of  United  States  Don  Cagsar — who  rules 
our  country  as  President-General.  He  leads  a  mighty  army 
through  conquering  wars,  taking  valuable  possessions  from 
the  British,  Spanish  and  French.  Everything  he  under 
takes  is  for  love  of  country.  He  is  the  people's  idol.  A 
love  adventure  is  of  the  same  importance  to  him  as  an 
affair  of  state,  and  he  slights  neither. 

It  is  simply  the  author's  fanciful  idea  of  "  what 
might  have  been"  if  Burr  had  not  shot  Hamilton. 


C.  M.  CLARK  PUBLISHING  CO.,  BOSTON 


ON 

SATAN'S 

MOUNT 

By     DWIGHT     TII^TON 

AUTHOR        OF 

"MISS     PETTICOATS" 

(t  A  UNIQUE  tale  of  love  and  of  a  supreme 
l~\  temptation,  finding  its  background  in 
^^^^^^^  the  present  social  and  econ 
omic  situation  in  this  country 
and  culminating  in  a  possible 
situation  arising  from  the  pres 
ent  craze  for  the  centralization 
of  wealth."  The  author's  view 
of  the  possible  results  of  the 
creation  of  a  cabinet  officer  to 
represent  labor  will  doubtless 
create  much  interest,  comment 
and,  perhaps,  not  too  friendly 
criticism.  Prominent  students 
of  sociology  and  labor  topics 
declare  that  "On  Satan's 

Mount,"  with  its  bold  treat 
ment  of  a  vital  national  peril, 

will  occasion  more  comment  than  any  novel  of 

the  past  decade. 

ILLUSTRATIONS    BY    C.    H.    STEPHENS 
Attractively    Bound,    $1.5O 


'And  .  .  . 
taking  Him 
up   into  an 
high 

mountain 
shewed 
unto 
Him  all 
the 

kingdoms 
of  the 
world." 


C.   M.   CLARK    PUBLISHING    COMPANY,   BOSTON 


IN    PREPARATION 

"LOVE 

STORIES 
FROM 
REAL 
LIFE" 


BY 

MILDRED 

CHAMPAGNE 


C,  What  is  your  love  story  ?  C.  We 
all  have  our  own  little  love  story. 
C.  You  have  had  yours,  but  you  have 
never  told  anyone  of  it,  perhaps.  And 
then  again  perhaps  you  have.  C.  At 
least  you  are  interested  in  the  love 
affairs  of  others.  C.  There  is  nothing 
more  interesting  than  a  good,  lively 
love  story;  this  book  is  a  collec 
tion  of  some  that  sparkle  brilliantly. 


We    expect    to     ptiblisH     this 
booK  about  >Sept.  1 


C,  M,  CLARK  PUBLISHING  COMPANY,  Boston 


I  "A  BOOK  TO  STAGGER  SORROW"! 

JUNK 

WRITTEN  AND  ILLUSTRATED  BY  LEON  LEMPERT,  JR. 


PRINTED  ON  HEAVY  PAPER, 

BOUND   IN   ILLUSTRATED   CLOTH, 

PRICE.   $1.25 

OVER  100  ILLUSTRATIONS  to  Cure  WEEPS 
...ATTRACTIVELY  PRINTED  IN  COLORS... 
ORIGINAL  VERSES  ON  FAMILIAR  TOPICS 


PRESS  COMMENTS 

"  The  author  is  a  sort  of  a  George  Ade  in  Rhyme," 

—  Boston  Posit  bov.  13,  1901. 

"  The  style  is  rather  that  of  Field,  the  rhyme  and  rhythm 
are  good  and  the  subjects  sufficiently  diverse  to  show  the 
writer's  versatility."  —  Coach  and  Saddle^  Dec.  1901. 


"  There  is  a  world  of  humor  in  this  book  of  unique  and 
humorous  verse,  with  many  illustrations." 

— The  Book  News,  Dec.  1901. 


"  A  lot  of  comically  clever  jingles." 


World,  Nov.  23,  1901. 


1C.  M.  CLARK  PUBLISHING  CO.,  BOSTON 
NHMOBaBHHHHSflBHHBHMBBBBMnnHMB^ 


Will   be  issued  September  8,  1903 

A  Ranch  Story 

by  A  Real  Ranch  Girl 

MISS     FRANCIS     PARKER 

^  The  title  has  not  been  selected  yet,  but  you  may 
depend  upon  it  that  it  will  be  well  worth  your  while  to 
watch  for  the  announcement  of  the  name. 

C.^  is  a  mighty  interesting  book,  and  rich  with  the  real 
life  of  the  1 2  mile  long  ranches  up  among  the  Bear's 
Paw  Mountains. 

41,  Miss  Parker  has  lived  her  22  years  of  life  on  her 
father's  ranches  in  northern  Dakota,  and  on  the  Indian 
Reservation  in  southern  Dakota  with  her  uncle,  an  Indian 
agent.  She  has  varied  the  excitement  of  breaking  her 
own  bucking  bronchos  to  saddle,  by  bringing  the  best 
tutors  from  the  east  to  prepare  her  for  college. 

4^ Her  writing  has  the  Western  dash  that  might  be  ex 
pected  of  such  a  girl.  She  has  written  a  strange  romance 
of  the  life  »he  has  lived. 

C.  M.  CLARK  PUBLISHING  COMPANY,  BOSTON 


For  $1.50 


posters 

are  reproduc 
tions  of  original 
oil  sketches  done 
exclusively  for  us  by 
well  known  artists. 

They  vary  in  size 
from  12  x  18  inches 
to  18  x  26  inches,  and 
are  most  attractively 
printed  in  four 
colors. 


BEAUTIFUL 
POSTERS 

AND 

VOUR  CHOICE 

OF  THE   FOLLOWING 

POPULAR 

OUND  AND   ILLUSTRA 

NOVELS. 


CLOTH    BOUND  AND   ILLUSTRATED 


QUINCY  ADAMS  SAWYER, 

By  Charles  Felton  Pidgin. 

BLENNERHASSETT, 

By  Charles  Felton  Pidgin. 

HESTER  BLAIR, 

By  William  Henry  Carson. 

MISS  PETTICOATS, 

By  D wight  Tilton. 

THE  CLIMAX, 

By  Charles  Felton  Pidgin 

ON  SATAN'S  MOUNT, 
By  Dwight  Tilton. 

TITO, 

By  William  Henry  Carson. 

Address,  C.  M.  CLARK  PUBLISHING  COMPANY,  BOSTON 


OOQ 


426 


